


Stars Like a River

by bluelamia



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Choir Choir Choir In Space, F/M, If the Enterprise Had a Glee Club ..., Magical Music Cures, Museums, Music, Mystery, Mystical bonds, The World's Worst Mary Sue, Time Travel, Wishful Satire Sue But That's Reaching ...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-02 08:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelamia/pseuds/bluelamia
Summary: Will Riker is haunted by dreams of a world where his bond with Deanna Troi is destroyed. Meanwhile, a murder on board and the disappearance of a ship puts the Enterprise crew on edge. How is a millennial music expert the key to everything? Will and Deanna must solve the mystery before they lose what they hold dearest.





	1. The Highwayman

**Author's Note:**

> Started this a decade ago. Better finish it. It has the most Mary-Sue of Mary-Sues. And singing. And is not meant to be taken seriously. At all. This is not an apology.
> 
> This is being reposted from fanfiction.net (where is has languished incomplete for a decade).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jilted lover sits in the John Lennon Museum waiting for the phone to ring. She ends up spending the afternoon with a strange man in an izakaya with karaoke. He makes her an offer she can't refuse.

_Dedicated to anyone else amused (or insulted :) by the incredibly pat way Troi and Riker ultimately patch things up on screen._

* * *

**The Highwayman** (Prologue)

She concluded - after an hour - waiting for Yoko Ono's phone to ring was as pointless as hoping David would walk through her apartment door that evening and surprise her with flowers. Surprise her with marmite. Surprise her with life.

Bastard.

But it wasn't David doing the surprising today. She barely noticed the rumbling cough behind her until the cushioned seat she was sitting on puffed up when a greater weight sank next to her.

Even so she ignored the newcomer. She heard the oh-so-contraband crinkle of a cellophane packet, chewing, then more crinkling. Eventually, the crinkling became scrunching and she assumed the chocolate bar had been consumed.

She started at the deep, rich voice when it broke the silence.

"Once, I sat here for three and a half hours."

Her head didn't move. She kept staring ahead.

"I didn't want to leave when they started closing up," the voice continued. "I tried to reason with them -  _what if Yoko's forgotten the time difference between Japan and New York_ , I asked. What if she meant to ring and got delayed? What if the phone starts ringing just as we exit the gallery? Wouldn't she want someone - a fan - to be there?"

For a nasty second black spots swam across her eyes and she had to put a hand down to keep her head from spinning away. She shivered, feeling exposed.

For the first time since arriving at the museum, her attention was torn from the recess in the corner where the old-fashioned cream dial up telephone - Yoko Ono's phone to the adoring public - was set. She turned.

The voice belonged to a man, a large, shabby man. Even seated, he loomed over her.

Despite the reasonable weather and relative warmth of the building, a long brown coat covered him up to the collar under his ears. A button hung on a thread, and a tweed cap was crammed onto his head. It did nothing to tame a mess of wild salt and pepper curls, rioting underneath. From top to bottom, including a chunky pair of hiking boats to the man himself, looked freshly filched from a trash can.

As if her meanness was splashed across her face, she winced and rushed to appease her guilt.

"Did they let you stay?"

He laughed.

"In this country?"

She couldn't place his accent, but something in his posture, shoulders slumped forward, hand on chin, and a morose expression on his scruffy, unshaven face, made her think of a sad Russian performing bear.

"I was so certain …"

When he didn't finish, she turned back to the phone, its powerful compulsion at work again.

"Why shouldn't I be the lucky one?" she said. "That's what I think. I could just walk out this room and if it rang someone else would get all the luck. But if I just sit here and bide my time and pay my dues, couldn't fate reward me with this one thing to make up for everything else ..."

Too late she realized how melodramatic she must have sounded. A brick wall would have been handy just then.

As though he never heard her the Russian bear carried on. "I was so certain … I couldn't work out what went wrong - why she didn't call."

She searched for something to say.

"I should have been paying more attention," he said with a shake of his head.

She looked at him.

"Why? What happened?"

"I had my days wrong."

He looked her directly in the eyes. "She'd rung the day before."

"Oh."

Talk dried up. The young woman stole sideways glances at the man while he leaned over his knees to stare at his fraying bootlaces. Around the room individuals and couples drifted from artifact to artifact. White and full of geometric shapes, the room was as much an art piece as the exhibits on display.

Briefly the phone was forgotten as she let the music wash over her. She imagined that there was no heaven,  _no hell below us, above us only sky._

The man lurched, rocking her on the seat as the cushion rolled.

"Do you have time for lunch?"

Without thought she glanced at her wrist. "It's 3pm."

"A drink, then. Tea and scones in the café. You can tell me why you think a call from Yoko Ono is going to make up for the tragedy that is the rest of your life."

"But what if the ..." She gestured to the object of torment, which was now concealed by a group of tourists.

He shook his head.

"Not today … I just know," he said, putting his hands up, anticipating the obvious question.

She sighed. "I suppose it is a bit pathetic."

"Come, then. The John Lennon Museum has taken up enough of your time today, I'd say. What do you think? Tea? Coffee?"

She stared at him, wondering why alarm bells were not sounding. Hands sunk deep in pockets, coat pulled up under his chin, he wasn't exuding an air of trustability.

But there was something else in his face - a seriousness and intelligence, and a warmth, which she felt compelled to respond to.

He could have been someone's uncared-for uncle. Her heart ached.

Besides, he was the first person she had had a real conversation with in days.

And, he had smiled at her.

Banishing her last doubts she smiled.

"I think we can do better than crap coffee and burnt scones."

Ten minutes later she had led him away from the station plaza to a tiny izakaya, a small dilapidated building nestled impossibly between two five-storied affairs, pachinko and karaoke parlors, respectively.

Small, dark and decorated with traditional posters of scary, sharp-nosed aristocrats, Kitanoya was a firm favorite with an older set of Japanese. The paper corners of the posters had yellowed and cracked around their pins. A group of suited men sat on cushions around a low table on a platform off to one side. Uniform black shoes had been neatly arranged on the floor next to them; jackets lay cast aside and behind, and beer flowed freely at the table. Smoke hung suspended in a cloud around their eyebrows.

They elicited a few open stares as they took bar stalls at the counter which ran the length of the room, opposite the platform. At the farthest end of the bar was a tiny stage with a TV on a stand.

It was a mystery why the izakaya had its own karaoke machine when Karaoke Kan obviously did such a bustling trade. Clientèle probably made all the difference, the young woman mused, as she took in the bar. Enka probably wasn't as big with the bright young things who milled around next door as it was with the older generation who frequented slightly crusty izakaya. Actually, enka wasn't that big with her either - too much nasal warbling - but it set the scene for her tale.

Because, before she had even ordered her first beer, she had decided she was going to tell her tale.

So she did.

Two frothy beers later she and her new friend contemplated the bowls of edamame husks that were yet to be removed from the counter. He had listened quietly, eyebrow shooting up or shaking his head in appropriate places.

"So, here you are," he said.

"Yep." She poked one of the bowls, sliding it back and forth. Now that it was out - that she'd finally put words to the events - she wondered how it had sounded to the stranger.

"I wish I knew the right thing to say ... but I have to admit in all my travels I've never encountered a situation as-"

"Ridiculous? Tragically humorous?"

"Perhaps, 'needless' - if I am to be honest. If I ever run into this David of yours, I shall make it a priority to tell him exactly what I think of his antics."

She smiled and gulped back an unladylike burp.

"You don't listen too well, do you? In the realms of possibility, I'd say your chances of ever running into my partner are up there with the moon being made of cheese and humans propelling themselves as fast as the speed of light."

"A fifty percent chance then."

She stole a suspicious look at him but his face remained straight. Oblivious.

He didn't wait to let her go on. "Your job sounds glamorous - a lounge singer, eh?"

She shrugged. "It's a step sideways from hostessing. I suppose I could make more teaching."

"Why don't you?"

She paused, studying her fingers against the glossy stained wood of the counter.

"Never really considered it ... I don't really fit in with that sort of crowd."

He reached for a tooth pick. "Say the phone had rung."

She froze.

"Say you did answer it, and there was Yoko Ono on the other end. What would you have said?"

She relaxed.

"Naturally, I've wondered about that.

"D'you know something? I have absolutely no idea. I mean, what can you really say?  _Hi, how are you? Omigod. I can't believe this is really happening. What's the weather like in New York? How's Sean ..."_

She ran out of breath and questions.

"Truthfully, I wasn't waiting out of some desperate desire to talk to John Lennon's widow. I just wanted to be somewhere at the right time and in the right place for once. I wanted something  _good_  and special to happen to me."

The background enka was cut off mid-flourish as a patron, a wiry, bespectacled salariman, took to the tiny stage. Other patrons clapped and called as the man said something and did a little bow. He keyed a number into the machine's remote.

The big stranger gave no sign he was taking any notice.

"I suspect I've got nothing better to ask her either. Maybe the phone didn't ring for us because we weren't the right people to take the call."

She frowned.

"If that were true, imagine if you were the person with the right question and not-"

The first notes of the karaoke man's song began. Recognizing the melody she stopped.

The salariman screwed up his face and started singing with more passion than talent.

At last the stranger swivelled round to pay attention. He leaned on the bar to watch the show.

On the final note, the singer bowed again while his companions applauded him.

The woman clapped too.

"It's such a beautiful song. I always try to imagine what it all means.  _Hito wa, nagarete dokodoko you ku no, hana o sakasoyo_."

"Why don't you just ask?"

"Oh, no," she said as he reached around, preparing to accost a local for translation.

"No, it's something I try to imagine - I don't need to know.

"Sometimes I hear a song in another language, and I think  _how fabulous_.  _I don't know what it's saying but I bet its got some beautiful, sublime meaning_. And then I check the web for a translation and discover the words are just as trite as any shite canned Western pop song. So disappointing. Sometimes it's just better to stick with your own imaginings."

They slipped into another uncertain silence.

A slim song book had been left on the bar stall next to her. She picked it up and thumbed through it.

"Fancy a turn," she joked, breaking the levity.

His bushy eyebrows went up.

"I doubt they'd have anything I can sing in there."

She nodded.

"Most of it's fairly traditional stuff, I think - the English section's limited to Elvis and the Beatles pretty much."

He considered it. "Maybe not. None of those books ever have the songs I really want to sing, anyway."

"What would you sing?"

"Oh, plenty of stuff you've probably never heard of."

"Oh, really? I don't know whether to be offended by that or not. Singing, after all, is how I choose to make my living - no mean feat in this town, too, I should add."

He made a contrite face.

"Well, honestly - and this is embarrassing - I never really know the names to half the songs I like; I just remember certain lyrics."

"Try me."

"Umm, okay - but I'm not singing them." He did a sort of grimace, paused and despite his lack of enthusiasm about singing, launched half-heartedly into his first selection.

" _Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_ -"

She snorted.

" _Cheek to Cheek_. Next - and could you sing it with less monotone, please."

He chuckled and thought briefly. "How about  _I was a spaceman, I fly a starship cross the universe divide and when I reach the other side_ …I don't know the rest of it."

His confidence had risen as had his voice. The party of salarimen were looking up curiously. She could imagine their thoughts.  _Is the hairy gaijin going to perform_?

She repeated his words, tapping her fingers as she did. She flashed him a smile. " _The Highway Man_."

" _Stars flow like a river, carry me to you_."

Her eyes went wide, her mouth pursed. He had stumped her. She couldn't deny it.

"No - you got me there. Can you remember anymore?"

He shook his head, and she grimaced.

"That one seems irritatingly familiar."

He shrugged, then brightened.

"There's this one song - it's special to me, sort of reminds me who I was and who I no longer am.  _I long to see the other side of things, h_ _ung on a bridge in search of something big-"_

 _"I can't look down, I-I can only retreat. Who knows one day I'll dive into the sea,_ " they ended together, ignoring the good-natured clapping that had erupted from the business party.

She grinned.

"I can't believe you know that song." Her face dropped. "David loved it - it was one of his favorites."

Bitterness crept into her voice. "So much for better the devil you know."

She fell silent again. As if sensing her mood, the man did not offer anymore song suggestions. He hadn't finished with the subject though.

"I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for that song."

He paused until she looked up.

"I realize we've only just met - you didn't ask my name, and I do not know yours - but I know I can offer you something ... something much better, much more special than a call from Yoko Ono."

She looked at him, bemused. Her gave a little shake of her head, her eyes holding a wild eagerness.

"There's only one thing I want …"

He nodded.

"David?"

"You have to understand, you'd have to trust me." There was warning in his voice. "There would be no going back and I can't explain how I will do it - not straightaway. I shouldn't even be offering you this. You can't know how many rules - some of my own making - I am violating."

For a moment, her face telegraphed her hope, but she forced herself to reign it in: to exercise caution. A caginess she hadn't felt all afternoon popped up. And confusion.

And anger.

"This is stupid. Why would you say something like that?" She reached down for her bag, nearly toppling off the stall in her haste "Who are you? What could you possibly hope to gain by this?"

The big man reached for her arm but not roughly.

"I can't make a full promise you'll see him ... but I can give you a fighting chance. You don't have that now.

"Believe me. Listen! The phone is ringing. This call's for you and there are only two ways you can answer it."

Hope battled fear. He watched the war play out in her eyes.

She swallowed slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine, John Lennon  
> Hana, Sachiko Kumagai  
> Cheek to Cheek, Irving Berlin  
> The Highway Man, Jimmy Webb  
> The Devil You Know, Neil Finn


	2. Keep Myself Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's causing William Riker's headache these days - his job or his relationship with Deanna Troi?

**Keep Myself Awake**

"It's a request for  _temporary_  transfer."

Not just anyone's temporary transfer,  _USS Enterprise_ first officer Commander William T. Riker thought gloomily. He hadn't looked her in the eyes yet. The writing, swimming on the padd in front of him, held him captive. He got as far as the name. He didn't need to read anymore to know what the request was.

He rubbed his face. "Even if I sign off on this there's no guarantee Command will see it in the same light."

"You're worried about how this will look?"

It wasn't just a question; the accusation stung. She continued her attack.

"Is that what you're going to tell Ensign Trashec or Lieutenant A'suofa? Tell them they can't return to assist their homeworld because it might look bad?"

Commander Riker struggled to remember the last time Commander Deanna Troi, ship's counselor, had stared at him with as much hostility. The echo of shattering pottery jogged his memory.

At least, on that occasion, the situation had been equal to the anger. A woman just jilted for the second time is justified in flinging about as many priceless ceramics as she wants, he figured. But those were personal circumstances. This time it was in a professional setting he had to disappoint her. As angry as she was, he knew she would keep her emotions under control. She knew it, too. Besides, it wasn't him she was really pissed off with.

"Counselor," he said, trying to keep the formality between them. "I know the war has taken a considerable toll on many of this ship's crew ... but with the Dominion force decimated and retreating, there is little left for Starfleet to do but mop up - a task better suited to ships fitted for that purpose. The Federation and Command are united in their determination for the fleet to put this behind it. It's time to rebuild. The mission to Ark11 is seen as a positive and necessary move and a chance for people to have something reaffirming to focus on."

Riker recited the mission statement as faithfully as he could, but didn't bother effecting any conviction. She'd see straight through it.

 _Come on, Deanna_ , he thought wearily.  _Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me._

Lost in his fatigue, he missed the start of her reply.

"… a shallow, ego-stroking exercise designed to draw attention from the obvious." She was just getting warmed up. "Well, people are hurting. And it's no weakness to acknowledge that. The last thing I'd want to see while I was surveying my wasted home is some perfectly attired, grinning Starfleet captain swanning around at some fancy soirée on some forgotten, two-bit planet."

Riker decided to ignore the more inflammatory parts of her speech. He would use his discretion when making record of the meeting, just as he had for several other crew members who had stolen a march on her.

"We could – should - be doing so much more," she said.

"You've done more than your fair share-"

"But there's still so much more to be done. And it's not about fairness or sharing a burden. Sometimes, shouldering more than your fair load is simply a thing to be borne."

"The rebuild will happen just as quickly without you, Deanna. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. I have more than twenty requests, much the same as yours, before me. I had hoped for your help convincing these people that the Ark mission is worthy."

Hoped? Who was he kidding? He had been counting on her help.

Troi shook her head. "If you force people to do something they believe is a frivolous waste of time and resources …"

"Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me Ark11 is a frivolous waste of effort?" he asked, despite his own intense desire to avoid  _her_  eyes.

"Can  _you_  honestly tell me you don't harbor any reservations, either?"

She sighed. "Will, people can't help the way they feel. Morale can't be healed with a snap of the fingers, just because you want it. You, yourself, are-"

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the desk: four half empty coffee cups around his padd.

He had wondered when the interrogation would start. He'd done a damn good job holding her off this long. She was sizing him up, assessing him in her inscrutable manner - only this time, she was frustrated. He was reading her emotions more easily than she was reading his. He could see it in the furrowing of her brows, a slight pinched look about the mouth. Riker felt too exhausted to delight in the sense of power this realization might once have brought him.

"You  _know_  I'm okay," he said.

Nothing she found in him could contradict the statement. "Nothing you're going to tell me about?"

"No."

A dull ache he had been trying to suppress re-emerged. She didn't miss his pained expression nor his fingers automatically rising to massage his temples. "How long have you had a headache?"

He swept his hand over the table. "Probably for about as long as I've been wading through this lot."

She seemed to accept his explanation. Sympathetic Troi was back, but only briefly. "Shouldn't sheer weight of numbers speak volumes?"

Riker wanted the conversation to be over. He needed it to end, and quickly.

"Look, Deanna. Do you think Starfleet is making a mistake?"

She hesitated. "Yes. No."

He contained his impatience as he waited for her to explain.

She got to her feet, pacing the room, looking for the words she needed.

"I understand how the opening on Ark11 provides people with the first real, post-war  _triumph_." The emphasis was loaded with scorn.

"While the Federation quietly cleans up whatever active pockets of Dominion resistance remain, Ark11 opens in splendor, showing people that the war itself, with all its losses, was a temporary thing. An aberration. People throughout the quadrants must now pick up the pieces of their lives and worlds and get on with life again. We all want this. Some have already started - sweeping away the reminders." Her voice almost choked.

"But for many the memory is not so cleanly banished. Things have been lost, Will, and it hurts. It's going to keep hurting despite Command's insane assumption that applying a bandage equals instant healing."

She had turned away from him. "This may sound odd coming from me - but now is a time for doing. We've all had a chance to talk. What many of us need now is  _to do_.

"Many who survived the experience will find guilt in their fortune. Many are seeking to wrest back some feeling of control. Wanting to help with the final clean up, with the rebuild - that's perhaps one of the most valuable contributions and atonements people can see making for themselves … But a peaceful mission when so much is waiting to be done - some of us don't feel worthy of it."

She was talking about herself.

He had heard enough: survivor guilt. It wasn't that he didn't understand it - he just didn't like seeing her this way. She'd explained away her anger, but he didn't believe action alone was the right thing for them to do without also seeking additional counseling.

The parallel with his own situation didn't escape him and since he didn't want to think about  _that_ he turned his attention back to the reason she was here.

"It would be very easy for me to simply dismiss every one of these temporary transfer requests. There's no way they would all be approved at once anyway, but-"

"Can you afford to let any of them go?"

"Command wants a fully operationally  _Enterprise_. But perhaps I could pull a few strings … well, three or four maybe. Certainly no more than that. They won't be happy with the message the granting of so many requests would send. By dispatching the  _Enterprise_  to Ark11, it's hoped people will start to feel the war truly is over. Once people have accepted that perhaps life will be easier to return to."

They were rational arguments. Having its flagship resume peacetime duties, fully crewed and operational, Command wanted to send its own message of safety and reassurance. It was a pity he didn't quite buy it.

The opening of Ark11 coming at this point, a decade off schedule, must have been received as a sign, Riker thought.

It was to be the perfect post-war extravaganza.

More than half a century in planning and construction, the previously uninhabited planet had been Terra-formed into a potential cultural hub for the Federation - a place where every Federation member planet had a stake - a chance to display permanently its history, its cultures, its philosophies. Music, food, ecologies, live displays, a mix of recreated and authentic relics - huge complexes prepared for conventions, conferences, it could easily become the educational center point of the known universe. Every great university and college had reserved space for a campus. There were even holiday parks and culturally-themed vacation tours on offer.

Riker doubted Ark11 would ever top his list of all-time best shore-leave destinations, but plenty of other people would clamor to get to the planet. Federation lotteries held on every member planet offering the chance for lucky citizens to be at the opening month-long extravaganza had proven extremely popular.

Starfleet had seized on the opportunity to have a visible presence at the event. Archeology dilettante Jean-Luc Picard sailing in with all the majesty of the fleet's flagship was the perfect candidate for a fleet representative at the opening.

Plans to have the crew involved with the final sector clear ups were scuppered when it became obvious the museum planet was gearing up for its massive celebration.

Knowing the celebration was reasonable had not made it any easier to swallow. Once the crew had been briefed, Riker had noticed a tension building. Faces had become tightly drawn, undercurrents of resentment had swept through the ship. Riker had heard, for the first time ever, in the low speeches of fuming crew members, what could have amounted to open ship-wide mutiny.

He had faith in his team, however. He didn't doubt their ultimate loyalty to the ship's captain, but the stress of that loyalty was chafing. Riker had been relying on Troi's acute understanding of feelings on board. Her apparent defection to the other camp was a blow. He tried to ignore the ache above his eyes and set about presenting his case.

"Would it help if I said this was just another part of the war effort?"

Troi had stopped pacing. She sat in the chair opposite him, tapping her fingers in a tattoo of impatience. She contemplated him, even as he forced himself to meet her gaze.

Riker shifted uneasily. She was suspicious, but oddly confused as well. He had been strengthening the block gradually over the last few weeks. His actions weren't malicious. He discovered he could do it by accident. From meditations she had taught him. It wasn't a complete block - just a way of hiding part of himself from her. For her own good.

Distracted by other concerns she must not have noticed. He was glad. She'd had deep shadows under her eyes for too long. The relief at the freeing of her own planet had had a brief alleviative effect, but the heightened stress of the crew had taken a heavy toll. She certainly hadn't gained any weight since returning from Betazed. Her uniform didn't hang off her now - but only because she had simply replicated a smaller one.

Nothing he said seemed to help. At least she was no longer as listless as she had been. She had set her heart on returning to some of the worst affected areas. It had been expected. When that was taken from her, she had reacted angrily. Riker had been at a loss to know how to help his … friend.

When the dreams - nightmares, really - started, he'd had even more reason to keep his feelings from her. And he was succeeding.

But as pleased as he was, part of him was a little disappointed. Normally, his pathetic attempts at hiding from her failed - usually miserably. What did it mean that she could no longer read him easily?

Finally, she sighed. "Okay. What's your big idea?"

"We acknowledge the Enterprise drew the short straw. The crew's too good to openly rebel against a direct order. We allow three or four - from the most devastated areas of the quadrant - to transfer temporarily – maybe A'suofa and Trashec. However, we let it be known – unofficially - that Command understands how the crew might feel about being asked to take on an odious journey to Ark11. Essentially, this is the last and dirtiest of all wartime tasks."

"Drop the references to Command, Will - the crew needs to hear it from you."

"Does this mean you'll withdraw your request?"

She let him stew for several seconds.

"I suppose this means I'll have to work with you a bit longer."

His flimsy, specious argument had swayed her with barely a flicker of suspicion.

"You've just made an old commander very happy," he replied. The words slipped off his tongue.  _Old commander? Happy?_  The irony struck him too late.

If Troi had caught on, she wasn't giving anything away.

He'd got her on side, more easily than he had anticipated. He'd headed off a potentially damaging situation and regained an ally, but all he wanted was for this woman to leave before the strain of being around her became too apparent to hide.

He let out his breath in relief when she rose and moved to the door.

As it slid open she turned to study him. Somehow, something about this conversation had dissatisfied both of them.

"Are you sure you're okay, Will? You don't need to see Beverly?"

"I'm fine, Deanna." He made a point of turning back to his work.

She didn't press harder, and when the door had closed on her, he pressed back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling trying to will the tension from his shoulders. The cup of coffee he had replicated before she entered had gone cold.

Today had been the most difficult so far.

 _Go to Beverly_ , he thought sourly. He knew what Beverly'd say if he talked to the doctor. And talking it over with a counselor would be good advice. Trouble was … Deanna  _was_  the source of his problem, and central as she was to him - to the problem - he couldn't put this on her at the moment. Now was not the time.

The hum of the ship, the comfort of his chair, his own lost thoughts conspired against him, lulling him and preparing him for a luxurious,  _restful_  sleep. The caffeine, then, had been no help.

Sleep, please, he could have begged.

_And, suddenly, sleep is with him, behind him, leaning into his neck, a warm breath against his skin. He can smell her perfume, musk and sophistication._

_Light fingertips brush the skin on his shoulders. His chest burns where she lays a palm flat against it. Eyes closed, savoring her nearness, no memory of the concerns he's had - some other time._

_Light whispers tickle his cheek. He murmurs his appreciation as she drapes arms over his shoulders and rests her head on his against his heart. He sighs. Sleep is heavenly. He imagines her fingers playfully engaged with his own, as she gracefully rounds the chair._

_Leaning into him, floating fabric falls against body, electrifying him. He desires contact, the feel of her against him, as he stands, hungrily seeking the base of her neck, each fingertip, her mouth. His hands trace the contours of her back._

_On the table he knows instinctively is clear, he gently folds her back, one hand tightly clutching hers. She arches into him, shivering as his hand grazes the sensitive skin along her inner thigh._

_Heaven will be complete when he's complete - in touch with her body and soul. Greedily his mind opens to allow her in, eager for the feeling which will flood him when they entwine wholly._

_His eyes open, seeking hers. And, suddenly, there is no air to breathe. Black holes repel him into himself. He screams and recoils. There is nothing. And, although they are so closely together and her body is flesh, he feels nothing but ashes._

_She is there … and he is alone. No sense of her. Touching is useless. The woman closest to him is a stranger and the feel of her is disgustingly, sickeningly wrong._

_Tears travel from her empty eyes down her cheeks. He wants to cry. They disentangle. They …_

"Bridge to Commander Riker."

Riker shuddered awake at the chirping of his comm badge, breathing heavily and blinking as his eyes readjusted to the light.

"Bridge to Commander Riker." The insistent tones of the ship's android second officer were as effective as the red alert klaxon.

Riker knew the futility of acting on an uncharacteristic impulse to ignore the hail. He acknowledged Data.

"Commander, Captain Picard requests your presence in his ready room, sir."

The first officer rubbed the feeling of sand out of his eyes. His android friend would not detect anything in his voice indicating the terror which still gripped him, nor the sadness and worry which squeezed his heart.

The dreams were increasing in intensity and frequency, and they always ended the same gut-wrenching way. He should be prepared for it now, but when it came, it was as though he was in another world with no memory of the horror awaiting him.

He had no idea what it meant. He only knew he was scared, but of what, he couldn't be sure.

Talking to Troi was out. Not yet. Not until he understood more. The dreams' suggestive elements would probably amuse her, but what would she say about the other more frightening aspect - the threat to their tie, their bond?

Riker seldom felt inclined to discuss with anyone his relationship with Troi. The bond's invisibility and Troi's natural abilities usually accounted for the uncanny understandings they reached which may have garnered an outsider's attention.

Neither of them drew attention to their slightly peculiar arrangement. Even their friends knew not to question them directly, though some had their suspicions, Riker suspected. Somehow, the bond was as important to him as air, but like air not something that one regularly discussed - nor consciously thought about.

On the whole, Riker had rather enjoyed having a special metaphysical link to Troi. The thing was too pure, too sacred to be smug about. But it was a source of pride and a thing he basked in by himself. Sure, they never really did much with it, but at some point Riker had realized he was completely comfortable knowing it would always be a part of his life. Wouldn't it? Like air …

 _You only think about conserving air when there's a problem with your current supply,_ a wicked little voice whispered.

There was nothing wrong with the ship's environmental controls. Riker had started shivering for an entirely different reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep Myself Awake, Black Lab


	3. Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riker gets to host some musical historians traveling to the grand opening of a museum planet. The first historian is a bit of a bore - but one of his companions is young and pretty. Maybe this assignment won't be so bad after all?

**Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?**

"Just in time, Number One." Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked up from the replicator. "Drink?"

The first officer shook his head, stepping gingerly over a large earthen amphora to enter the room.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Riker chose not to comment on the mess of pots, baskets and primitive knives and tools on the floor.

Picard settled in his chair, lifted the cup and inhaled. Then he peered over its rim at his first officer. Riker stood stiffly, with his arms behind his back. There was none of the animation in his face Picard was used to seeing when the first officer was in good spirits. Not a happy Riker, then.

Picard took a sip of his tea, sure he could pinpoint the source of Riker's seriousness. "More transfer requests?"

Briefly, the officer's stance relaxed.

"No, sir. I think I've come up with a solution to stem that particular problem."

Picard contained his surprise - not at his officer's abilities, of which he had supreme confidence - but that his guess had been off. His curiosity would have to wait for satisfaction; Picard knew if there was a problem with the ship, Riker wouldn't hesitate to tell him, so whatever the problem was, it was most likely personal - and the captain considered prying beneath him.

"Well, I have news which might raise a few spirits," Picard said. "We're about to receive some additional duties on this mission. Ones that ought to mollify certain crew members."

"Unless you're going to tell me the Cardassians have taken up pacifism, I don't believe anything else we do on this mission will impact how people feel about it."

"Oh, ye of little faith, Number One," Picard said, but with none of the light-heartedness that had marked his welcome.

Riker didn't miss the implication. "Something's happened. What?"

The captain nodded at a padd in front of him.

"A civilian vessel heading to Ark11 has disappeared. Last contact was sixty-seven hours ago - a routine subspace message originating from its plotted course. The  _Bounty_  should have arrived at Ark11 yesterday. It failed to register at its destination point and is not responding to hails."

"There've been no reports of aggressor ships in this area of the quadrant," Riker said as he scanned the padd. "Are there any possible leads on what's happened to the  _Bounty_?"

Picard shook his head.

"No distress signal, no personal communications, nothing. The vessel is a private trading and transport ship. The shipping manifest listed fifteen, mostly humanoid crew, on board at its last port of call."

"And there's no possibility the crew has simply plotted a new course?"

"It's unlikely. The ship was delivering valuable cargo for exhibitors at the gala. I don't know many honest traders willing to put their professional reputations at risk by upsetting respected clients."

"What do we know about these traders?" Riker asked.

"The information we have at the moment is preliminary. I'm expecting a more complete dossier shortly but we won't be able to make a start on the investigation proper until we have dealt with one other concern."

"What?" Riker wondered what could take precedence over an investigation of this nature.

"A sector-wide warning has been issued to all vessels. A number of private transporters with passengers bound for Ark11 have expressed concerns. A number of these passengers are academics or have status and official positions on their home worlds."

"And it would be disastrous if the opening of Ark11 was marred by the disappearance of the ambassador of, say, Betazed," Riker said.

Picard's eyebrow shot up at the example.

"Quite," he said. "A moratorium on ships without suitable defense systems has been declared in this sector. That won't affect the larger transporters, but several smaller ones in our vicinity can not proceed to Ark11. The  _Enterprise,_ therefore, is to extend its welcome and offer safe passage to anyone who desires it. This mission has become, literally now, about making people feel safe in their universe again."

He sipped from the cup before continuing. "The  _Enterprise_  is to head to a rendezvous point at Starbase 313, where it is scheduled to pick up passengers from at least nine transporters following this course to Ark11."

"And you want me to?"

"Play the part of host, for the time being, until we have more to go on in this investigation." Picard smiled. "I thought you might be particularly interested in the first group we are scheduled to meet. Somehow I think you'll find plenty to talk about."

At Riker's look, he said, "They're musicians."

Picard watched the tall man exit the room with renewed vim, pleased he had been able to effect a change.

Satisfied, he reached for his cup and leaned back in his chair. The contents of the cup were long gone. Gone and not savored, Picard thought - as though Riker's moroseness had jumped ship to a new victim.

He surveyed the unsorted collection of artifacts on the floor before him. The task of having them all labeled and arranged in time for his lecture was daunting enough without factoring in the management of Starfleet's most prized vessel.

As much as he would have enjoyed the task he assigned his first officer - being a keen (though average) musician himself - the amount of preparation he still had to make for his part in one of the opening conferences on Ark11 left him little time for additional distractions.

"Computer, music. Something to match the mood."

"Request mood clarification."

"Uplifting melancholy?"

It was a game Picard had been playing with the computer for some time. Teaming incompatible emotions and asking the computer to supply music to fit the quixotic combinations.

It had, in the past, steered him in some unexpected musical directions. This one shouldn't tax the computer unduly, Picard mused.

Melancholic, for his first officer's downcast demeanor; uplifting, because Picard himself certainly didn't want to stay feeling depressed for too long - not when he had an hour-long lecture to prepare.

Without preamble music filled the room. Picard listened to the computer's interpretation of his request, which, disappointingly this time, seemed only to express melancholy.

"Why, indeed, Mr Riker, does your heart feel so bad?" Picard murmured, taking in the song's opening lament, as he started rechecking his notes. The song must have been some variety of historic synthpop; not a genre or time period he was at all keen on.

Just as he was about to cut off it off, the musical key changed from minor fall to glorious major lift. Picard grinned.

"Oh, well done, computer. You win again. Very uplifting."

The computer knew not to answer.

* * *

"So once a hymn is started, it can not be stopped. It simply must be sung to the end. Running out of time is no excuse-"

"Really? Fascinating," Riker murmured through gritted teeth, hoping the sarcasm was not apparent to his guests.

He had been relieved when Picard had first assigned him to this duty. Relieved to have to have an investigation to sink his energy into. Relieved that Picard hadn't set him up for an evening with Zakdorn nuns or Grazer toe dancers. It was difficult to be certain with the captain's occasionally peculiar sense of humor.

But, musicians. He usually found something to talk about with musicians of any species or planet. He might not  _like_ all the music he heard, but there was more to music than facile aural pleasure.

The chance to focus on other people, perhaps to learn something new about an area of his life that didn't center around work  _or her_ could be an unexpected gift.

"But, of course no kirtan is allowed during Akhand Path." Riker's companion continued his monologue, absorbed in his topic, as the first officer led the group to their quarters.

The happy task was not turning out as Riker had envisaged.

Picard's sweeping assumptions may just have confined his first officer to several days of (and Riker was surprised that even he could ascribe the adjective) boring musical discussion.

He had had to hastily re-evaluate his own personal beliefs. Musicians - yes, even Klingon opera composers - he could tolerate on an almost indefatigable basis. This was because at some point, the talk ended and the music began. Or the music kicked things off and the talking just rounded things out.

But, and he would take pains to point this out to Captain Picard, there was a not inconsiderable difference between musicians and _ethnomusicologists_.  _Or_   _social musicologists._  Or what ever they wanted to call themselves.

At the moment, his ire was (inwardly) directed at the particularly small and unkempt man walking beside him.

Dr Rodney Montgomery, comparative Terran sacred music musicologist specializing in the development of musical expressions in the Sikh religion in the 16th century, had latched on to Riker like a dog on a bone, leaving the officer little time to assess the others who had beamed aboard.

The doctor had monopolized Riker's time, as the officer dropped off passengers at their new quarters one by one.

"Naturally, I'd love to give you an example." Dr Montgomery was chuckling. "But you can see once I start I wouldn't be able to stop until-"

A larger man moved from the back of the group and put his hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"I'm sure the crew of this fine ship would all like an opportunity to hear your theories about kirtan, Monty. You'll have plenty of time to prepare something - a lecture perhaps," the big man looked imploringly at Riker who gave a nod. "And a suitable venue to deliver the talk."

"There are certainly people on this ship who would welcome the chance to hear an eminent scholar talk about a subject such as yours," Riker said, skirting around the fact he still couldn't work out what the doctor's subject was.

Thankfully they had arrived at the last of the guests' cabins, which would house the members of Dr Montgomery's group.

"You should find this room comfortable enough to plan your presentation, and, of course, if anything is lacking, just let me know," Riker said, ushering the doctor through the door.

The big man stepped in beside Riker once the door had closed on Dr Montgomery.

The other guests - six altogether – seemed content to trail along as they moved on to the next cabin.

"I do apologize for Monty," the man said. "He's very driven and single-minded when he's fixated on a particular topic."

"Qualities that probably make him a superb scholar, I bet."

"Undoubtedly," the man agreed. "The name's Sudamen, by the way."

Introductions had been hasty as Riker had herded the guests from the transporter room. The doctor's group had been one of four to come on board. He appreciated the stranger's unaffected manner. Riker had finely honed skills when it came to remembering names and faces, but he appreciated the fact the man wasn't too proud to assume he was unforgettable.

The large man was from Caldos, but his accent was not the typical Scots brogue Riker associated with the planet. Sudamen was the group's delegation head. The members of his party were representatives of the Dunedin Institute, an educational establishment which focused on Terran-influenced music in the Federation.

"Organization and appreciation," Sudamen said with a twinkle in his eyes when Riker asked what his specialty was. "I'm in charge of getting this lot safely to Ark11, since the institute has doubts about their ability to direct themselves.

"For some reason, the institute wants to see that half of these jokers make it back fairly intact - they weren't too fussy on just how intact - that's the organization bit. And they all tend to get a wee bit sulky if they don't get a daily doses of praise and admiration - that's where the appreciation comes in."

Someone spluttered and Sudamen grinned.

"They're a tetchy bunch, commander. They'll probably need sequestering the entire journey. Well, perhaps just Monty," he conceded at a protest.

At least they were genuinely friendly, Riker decided, as one-by-one he dropped the men and women off at their cabins.

No one particularly stood out and except for Dr Montgomery and Sudamen, none had vied for a conversation with the officer. Instead, the scholars had followed Riker, speaking sotto voce among themselves.

Their ages and interests were varied. The musical periods they studied were diverse and not even closely convergent.

In addition to Dr Montgomery, there was a twenty-second century retorq expert; a Byzantine Era specialist; a post-first contact lecturer (with particular interest in Vulcan influences on Northern Hemisphere colonial folk songs); a modern period comparative musicks grad student (Riker was embarrassed to realize he was no longer au courant with what passed muster with today's youth); a millennial anthropologist and a Baroque/Classical period musicologist. With such variance, the first officer was certain, the task of chaperoning these people would not actually be too onerous. Picard might actually regret not having more to do with them, he thought; on the face of it, they seemed more his cup of tea.

Finally, just Sudamen and one other guest remained - he couldn't remember which period she focused on. He stopped at two doors on either side of the corridor.

"These will be your quarters during your time with us. I'll arrange for your group to be given a tour of the ship after you have had time to freshen."

"Thank you." The big man glanced about him before he spoke again, his good-natured smile replaced with a look of concern. "Commander, this ship that's gone missing – Starfleet doesn't really think there's a greater threat in the area, really? This moratorium is just playing it safe, right?"

"The fleet takes seriously any threat to any Federation members. Until it can be established what happened to the  _Bounty_ , we prefer not to take any chances."

Sudamen nodded and shook the first officer's hand. His companion, a pretty young woman, who had remained quiet throughout exchange, hung back.

Riker had noticed her looking at the ship and its crew as they had walked to the quarters section. Her eyes had been wide and her cheeks sucked in, as though she were biting on them. She had done a good job of not dropping her jaw in awe. Come to think of it, she had stuck rather close to Sudamen, he realized.

"If you need any help with anything," Riker said, hoping to put her at ease, "don't hesitate to contact me."

Her hand swept a long strand of loose dark curls behind an ear. She paused, visibly steeling herself to speak further.

"I wonder if there is a music room that can be made available for me to practice?"

"Absolutely," Riker said. "I must have misunderstood. I wasn't aware any of you were performing at the gala."

"Oh, there'll be an element of performance in everyone's presentations, but Lark's been honored with a small part in one of the lesser Terran ceremonies," Sudamen said, somewhat proudly, Riker thought.

The woman reddened. "Just a small part."

Riker thought she might stop there, but she had more to say.

"As much as the period is reviled for its excesses, millennial culture seems to fascinate some people. I don't like to talk about the subject unless people have experienced it as authentically as possible."

"Therefore, she always starts with a concert." Sudamen had a soft spot for this woman. "It's quite an honor for a Caldosan."

"Well deserved, I'm sure," Riker said.

"It's absurd, we know, but when it comes to our shared heritage with Terrans today, we often feel like the poor cousin everybody tolerates," Sudamen said.

"Oh, of course, we have gone in our own direction, and our modern cultures are respected. But Lark, here, in her tiny field, is equal to any earth-born millennial scholar - in fact, I've seen Terrans who've spent their entire careers studying the period defer to her judgment. But the talent she deserves the most recognition for is her ability to teach the subject. Good lord! Students line up hours ahead of her lectures just to get a seat."

The woman, Lark, shook her head, smiling. "You're too prone to exaggeration, Sudamen."

She turned to Riker.

"Concerts are the best way I have to share what I know. I like to involve everyone in the process. Whether it's playing with me and singing or just being there. It's not always that easy - I find breaking down perceptions surrounding older music the most frustrating part. Once people accept the idea that the millennial generation had something valid to say, and very eloquent, beautiful imaginative ways of expressing themselves, they get past some of the ugliness of the age. It's really not the music which people react so strongly to anyway - more the other things for which that particular time is known for."

"I'm not completely familiar with millennial music," Riker admitted. "I find more to enjoy in some of the earlier musical movements of that century - jazz in its infancy."

"Ah, yes, but ... I tend to favor the Dublin definition of the millennial age, which doesn't wholly preclude early jazz movements."

Seeing his look of incomprehension, she clarified herself. "The Dublin set decided the age really started when people in the twentieth century began to demonstrate a wider awareness of the approaching Year 2000. Of course, I favor it because it means I get to study periods of culture which wouldn't fall into the pathetically specific general Sorbonne theory of millennialism."

Riker shifted on his feet. "Right."

"Are you a musician, Mr …"

"I'm sure the commander is very busy, Lark-"

"Riker. Please - call me Will. And, yes - I've been known to play … but not at a professional level."

"Well, Will, I am Lark and jazz is not my forte, but I'd be honored if you wanted to join me at a practice. Perhaps there's something I can learn from you? And maybe, I can introduce you to something new."

She was pretty and shy and friendly. And just as passionate about her area of expertise as Dr Monty. And young, surprisingly young to be so obviously respected. Riker was intrigued.

"If any of your crew want to join me, I'd welcome them," she said, oblivious to where Riker's thoughts were straying.

"And ..." She hesitated. "If it doesn't interfere with the running of this ship, I'd love the chance to entertain people with a concert."

Perhaps she was hesitant because she doubted the response would be a positive one. "It would be a good opportunity for a dress rehearsal."

"I can't foresee any problems arranging that," Riker said, privately wondering if the crew would welcome or resent the offer.

The millennial period was, as she had said, rather reviled for its apparent excesses. Much of the music from the period epitomized shallowness and vanity.

It had been a time of mass production values, focused on the bottom line and the drive to amass money - talent meant having "the package" which was more focused on aesthetic appeal than real ability (Riker remembered the phrase from one of the few texts he had read about the period).

Oh, well, it certainly wouldn't be a compulsory event, he decided. People would make their own minds about attending. Riker was willing to join her at practice though, simply to get to know her better.

Nothing in his conscience prickled. At least, that's what he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad, by Moby


	4. Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data finds debris from a starship blown apart in a nuclear explosion; Riker is an old man at a Sarah McLachlan concert. Lucky him - Basement Jaxx as the opening act.

**Stupid**

_Captain's log, supplemental_

_The_  Enterprise _left the orbit of Starbase 313 three hours ago, transporting fifty guests to the Ark11 opening._

_Our estimated time of arrival has been revised, however, to allow Lieutenant Commander Data to assess an unusual variance of space debris. I have granted the Lt. Comm an hour to determine if it is what we fear - debris from a vessel._

_If it is the_ Bounty, _it is well off its last known location and intended course._

_Our guests appear to be in a convivial mood. The experience of traveling on a Starfleet ship seems to outweigh the circumstances._

It was as though the Ark11 party had started early, Picard mused but did not report. He did not begrudge his passengers their excitement. Some guests had come at the behest of their governments. Some had come from worlds all but destroyed by the Dominion. How could he resent them making the most of their unexpected ride on a Starfleet vessel? So long as they didn't interfere with the running of his ship, he wished them well.

He went back to tinkering with artifacts for his lecture. Using a tiny brush he flicked invisible specks of dust from a nephrite adze. A chirp broke the silence.

"Yes, Mr Data?"

"Captain, I have completed my analysis of the debris fragments."

Picard held the adze up, squinting with one eye. "What can you tell me?"

"All the debris was manufactured in origin, sir," Data said, eliminating the possibility that it was natural space junk. "And all fragments exhibit signs of stress from an explosive force."

Picard's delicate brush movements slowed.

"Also, sir, all the pieces I tested emitted tritium isotopes in unusually high amounts. It is not inconceivable that the fragments were part of a larger construction that was torn apart by an explosion caused by a tritium reaction."

Picard froze.

Very carefully he laid the adze on a thick blanket on his desk. He knew he wasn't going to like the answer to his next question.

"Are you suggesting these fragments come from a  _nuclear_  detonation?"

"Yes, sir. Other explanations are possible - however, based on the evidence, I consider an explosion the most likely scenario."

The captain's forefinger tapped the side of his nose. "Data, are you able to estimate when this explosion occurred?"

Picard's knowledge of pre-first contact nuclear physics was rusty. What were the half-life calculations for tritium reactions? The remains of a historic nuclear explosion would leave only minute traces of detectable radioactive material, wouldn't they?

He had to ask. "There's no way this debris could be leftover from a nasty incident, say, three hundred years ago?"

Data's emotion chip interpreted the statement and tone accurately. "I am afraid not, Captain. This debris is from a  _fresh_ nasty incident."

"How fresh?"

"From the isotope breakdown, about approximately 78 hours, 4 minutes, 13 seconds and 11.32 hundredths of a second fresh, sir."

Something about Data's assuredness bothered Picard, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He scratched his head as he tried to work it out.

"Sir, I was attempting humor."

Picard held back a groan. "Timing, Mr Data," he said. "Remember, timing is as essential to a joke as the punch line."

"Yes, sir. I am endeavoring to determine appropriate intervals of-"

Picard coughed.

"With further analysis of the trajectory pattern and rate of speed I will be able to determine if the explosion was from an internal or external force, sir."

"Any luck determining if the debris is from the  _Bounty_?"

"Not from this, captain."

Picard tapped his chin this time. "You understand the implications, don't you, Data?"

"Tritium warheads were outlawed more than two hundred and fifty years ago, sir. Large scale mining petered out less than ten years later. Today, tritium is a controlled element. All mining operations must adhere to strict monitoring policies and the distribution of tritium is closely regulated. It is still used in some medical procedures, but only rarely and always in exceptional circumstances."

"Would a tritium warhead still be obtainable these days?" Picard asked.

"I will research the topic, sir."

"Excellent, Mr Data. Do what you can."

Even if this wasn't the remains of the  _Bounty_ , this find would require more investigation. If Data's theory about a recent nuclear explosion was correct, they had another problem. Picard was anxious to find out just  _how much_  of one.

* * *

Ceilings on spaceships were long overdue for a decorative overhaul. After two hours on his bed, fully clothed, with the lights on full, Riker had had plenty of time to contemplate the slate gray surface above him.

Recessed lights were discreetly pocketed amongst thin synthetic pipes inset halfway into the ceiling material. The pipes crisscrossed the room forming star patterns.

Those pipes formed part of the ship's bloodlines - one way information and power were circulated to the organs of the ship. Some of those cables probably passed through  _her_  room, connecting them in yet some other unknowing manner.

The sheets had been kicked into a heap at the end of the bed, but he was still sweating. Even as he forced his eyes to stare into the light above him, the battle was nearly over and his body begged to be allowed to fall into the sleep it desperately craved.

To fight sleep, he forced himself to recall as much as possible – the look on her face when she realized; the emptiness of her eyes; the hollow feeling he had in his chest; the horror of mentally reaching for her and finding nothing.

There was fire in his feet, in his legs, in his groin, in his stomach. An invisible weight pressed on his chest and his heart was pounding to escape.

Suddenly it was all too much. He gasped and bolted upright - a diver fighting to break the surface. His chest screamed as he sucked in the air.

Unthinking, he sprang from the bed. His nails dug in as he clenched his fists.

"This is ridiculous." He strode from the room without a backward glance.

The corridor was empty. It was ship's night. Most of the ship's inhabitants were probably tucked up tightly enjoying the luxury of a good night's rest. Riker stalked along, shying away from the occasional silhouette of a distant crew member on duty.

The airy quiet blended with the faint hum of the ship's engines. Noises, the odd clank here and there, the hiss of a door opening and closing, carried far.

He lost track of where he was heading – unusual, as the first officer would claim to know the ship better than he'd ever known any person ... or lover. He wandered up corridors, down corridors, onto turbolifts, seeking the loneliest, emptiest corners of the ship.

An ocean roar thundered in his ears. He felt alone - drifting. If he was at sea, the water was a hand pulling him down. He would struggle. Just one last chance to see her face, to look into her eyes, to know the comfort of being part of something greater than himself – that would be his dying plea.

His pace slowed.

With the thought of her smiling face he came to.

He was on a deck he couldn't immediately identify. He took in his surroundings. The brushed metallic walls, the dusky carpet which lined the corridors. His senses registered the thrum of the ship again. His body was no longer burning; instead, he was chilled. He hugged his arms around his body, trying to orient himself.

He couldn't continue to function this way.

He'd been snappish, less tolerant and dead to the feelings of most of his subordinates for days. He'd controlled himself well. It had been a good fight. But the risk that something might happen, that he might do something rash because of  _this situation_  was too strong.

There was only one person even remotely capable of helping him deal with himself. Unconsciously, he turned toward a turbolift. Awake or not, he could orient himself to her anywhere in space. She'd know instinctively he was coming. She'd be ready for him. His pace quickened.

As he made his way along the hallway, he became aware of a new sound breaking the night silence. A dull, penetrating, and constant doof doof doof. Riker put his hand to the wall but snatched it back when he felt the wall pulsate.

He was on the holodeck and the noises he could hear came from a suite which was obviously being used  _dangerously_.

He saw red.

Was it some primal instinct which made him storm to the door and bang?

He could have overridden any lock on the door. Instead he tried a more physical approach. Using his fists to pound, he started to bellow.

"Get this door open instantly," he yelled. " _I said open this_ damned  _door now."_

He was unprepared when the door panels whisked aside and a woman's face appeared. She ducked his blow.

Riker recoiled.

"I am so sorry," he said, raising his voice to be heard. "Are you okay? Ma'am?"

"Mr Riker?"

The millennial expert, Lark, stared at him. Behind her, red and green dots of light glowed in the darkened room. Humanoid outlines jumped about with the music. Now that the sound wasn't muffled, Riker could make out a melody.

Apology delivered, his anger surged. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

Riker blinked, disbelieving what he thought she had said.

"I'm sorry. Did you just ask me if you had to spell out what's going on here?"

Of all the gall. "Good grief," he said, "Computer, shut this racket up - NOW."

Voices started to complain; he yanked Lark from the room, host duties be damned. The door closed on them.

She didn't seem perturbed. Far from it. In fact, if anything, she was rather nonplussed.

Riker felt rattled. By his own overblown behavior, and by her ease.

"Do you know how much noise you were making?" It came out angry, but he could feel the anger melting away from him. The whole situation was just so curious.

"Do you know how long it took me to work out how to get it that loud?"

Riker stared at her, not sure what approach to take.

"For some reason the only way I could get the speakers to work properly was to disengage some sort of safety protocol," she went on innocently. "Actually, I had help."

Riker struggled to comprehend what she was saying; the hour was late and despite the adrenaline rush, he was dead on his feet.

"Can you just tell me what's going on?" he asked helplessly. "Is this one of your concerts … because I can tell you now if that's how you usually conduct them there's no place on this ship for one."

She looked upset. "Oh, no. No, that wasn't one of mine … let me explain-"

"Please do."

"I wanted to illustrate a point, and when someone described the holodeck to me, I thought it would be a superb way to recreate a millennial venue atmosphere."

"So, in other words, a concert."

"Yes - but not my own. Using the data banks Ensign Alijamo was able to program a concert featuring millennial musicians."

"And the noise?"

"Speaker technology was still in a fairly primitive form around the millennium. The sound of a speaker today compared to a speaker from 300 years ago is incomparable. The sound reproduction quality may be worse, but it's still a useful experience for insight into what the music would have sounded like. Unfortunately"-she frowned-"the holodeck program must have created damaged speakers because they wouldn't work properly. It wasn't until someone tried deactivating the safety constraints, that the music could be heard properly."

She was looking him in the eyes. Her tone was serious. Her expression proclaimed innocence. Riker didn't buy it.

"The purpose of the safety protocol,  _Ms_  Lark, is precisely for that reason - safety. If the computer would not allow you to play your music as loud as you wanted, then it must have been too loud. It was trying to protect you or, in this case, your hearing."

"Ah, but," she said, waggling her finger, "the speakers would not play  _anything_ at any level."

"Perhaps  _your music_ offended the computer's sense of good taste."

Riker didn't usually get a kick out of being nasty. Where was this bastard coming from?

He wasn't expecting the response he got.

Lark threw up her arms in mock disgust. "Good lord! Et tu, PC?"

She shook her head. "Is everyone prejudiced against the millennium? I protest! We have stupid, stupid soulless blah forced on us today and yet we scorn one of the greatest ages of musical development ever …"

She took in the non-amusement on Riker's face.

"Omigod … you should see yourself!"

She started laughing so hard Riker wondered if she was going to fall over. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

"You have to understand, Mr Riker. It's just that it makes me so happy." She spoke with a sincerity hard to fake. "I get ... electrified ... by music – I don't know how else to describe it.

"Using your holosuite I was able to recreate my dream concert."

A wistful expression passed over her face. "We don't play with toys at the Institute. The council is a tad parsimonious when it comes to having fun - so to have the opportunity to arrange to have whomever I want sing, what I want sung, where I want it sung and when …"

Her joy was infectious. Rather than repel the officer, Riker couldn't help but be intrigued by what had so animated the woman.

"Oh, I know the volume was unacceptable," she said airily. "I guess I just wanted to push the boundaries of this old bucket. Besides, the volume was fairly moderate by Y2K standards. And, your crew seemed so interested. Some of them were actually enjoying it, I think. Do you know what it's like to find people who can also get genuinely swept up in something you're passionate about?"

His anger had abated; all that was left was the intrigue and desire to know just a bit more about this woman - to step into that room. If there was something else he had been planning to do, well, that could wait, couldn't it? Someone should probably make sure the concert didn't violate any Starfleet conduct codes ... shouldn't they?

"So, would I know any of these musicians?" he asked, extending an olive branch.

"Why don't you let me introduce you." She reached for his elbow to lead him through the door.

"Just so we are clear … you're not going to have the volume up too loud, are you?"

Riker had to adjust to the low light before he could make out what he was seeing. The room she had created was small. Not at all what he had been expecting.

The party had got on with itself, but at a level far more acceptable to the officer. He was taken back by the number of faces he recognized. In the thirty-six hours she had been aboard, she had gathered a respectable coterie. Riker estimated about thirty lower deck crew members were bobbing up and down on the tiny dance floor, which, he noted, was wooden, and bouncing.

The music now, he had to admit, was catchy, but the lyrics (the ones he could make out) didn't impress him.

" _Where's your head at, where's your head at,_ " the rhythmic chant repeated.

There was a little stage at the back of the room. What looked to be a limestone block wall was covered with black sheets. The offending speakers - taller than he was - were at the sides of the stage.

The two men on stage were not quite hidden behind an antique computer and, Riker stared, an old record player? Or was it called a turntable? One of the men (he wore glasses) was dressed in a crisp old fashioned suit. The other had on a kind of shapeless short-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt was splashed with reds and yellows. Its wearer also had on a pair of glasses with darkened lenses. Sunglasses?

Hundreds of posters lined the walls, including an inordinate number featuring penguins. There were even penguins (wearing blackened glasses) emblazoned on the speakers.

Lark directed a bemused Riker to several people at the back of the room.

As they approached a table, a voice called out. "There you are. You're missing your own show, Lark."

It was Sudamen.

When he saw Riker, a flicker of recognition and something else – annoyance? surprise? - crossed his face. He recovered quickly, leaving Riker to wonder if he had just imagined it.

"Commander – welcome," Sudamen said. "I see she's roped you in too. Be wary – she'll have you chained and enslaved before you know it – you'll be able to check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."

Lark groaned. "Lord, Sud ... that was terrible. Nice try, but cheesy just the same."

Riker glanced at them both, unsure of the part he had just played in an obvious game between the two.

Sudamen laughed. "Don't mind us."

On the song's dying beats, Lark jumped easily onto the stage.

"Guys, Simon and Felix," she said with a flourish into a microphone with a cord. A cord!

Riker found himself in a sea of claps and cheering. Lark hadn't finished.

"Because I'm sure you all have shifts to get to in the morning, I thought a change of pace might be needed to help you get to sleep, so tonight we're going to finish off with a millennial special - a little tortured angst. It's my very great pleasure to introduce you to a singer who would need no introduction if this was a Lilith Fair festival …"

A woman stepped from the shadowy side of the stage. She and Lark exchanged a few inaudible words, before more people with instruments joined them. It was a tight fit on the stage.

Riker leaned against a rickety wooden bench.

"Beer?" a grizzled man in period costume offered.

"Why not?" Riker took the proffered glass bottle - one with a tight metal cap, which didn't seem to want to unscrew. He looked about the room, hoping he appeared nonchalant. He was saved by Ensign Perim, who picked up a small hand tool on the table and appeared to jimmy the cap.

He willed himself to stop being so self-conscious. If the ensigns had picked up the intricacies and idiosyncrasies of an old culture in such a short time, so could he.

He felt stupid, but reminded himself bottle openers were hardly de rigueur in the twenty-fourth century.

"Here," Sudamen said, handing one over. Riker studied it - an old-fashioned pocket knife. It did the job.

"Commander, that peculiar stop we took in the middle of nowhere today – was that anything we should be concerned about?"

On stage, the musicians weren't rushing things. A guitarist was strumming a few chords and tuning strings. The singer was sound checking the mics, speaking into them one by one (she had an almost standard North American Terran accent) and periodically calling for more fold back.

As Sudamen looked ahead, Riker tried to gauge whether there was any hidden meaning in the man's question.

"An unanticipated engineering problem was all," he replied. "Nothing that should worry you or any of your party."

"There's been no further development on the  _Bounty_ , then? I only ask," he added quickly when Riker glanced his way, "because we nearly traveled on the  _Bounty_. Our departure was unexpectedly delayed, and we had to switch to the  _Fleur-de-lys_. To think that something has happened to the  _Bounty ..._ well, you can understand how ill I might be feeling ..."

"I didn't know."

On stage, the singer stood calmly while behind her a man fiddled with a massive drum kit. When he was content with the set up, he had to squeeze against the wall to reach his seat. It was his crashing drum solo that kicked off the performance.

Riker was moderately impressed. There was more for him to admire in this woman's performance than the previous song. The music was more soothing and her voice could have cut crystal. Her band was skilled. They handled their instruments with ease, making complex sounds appear effortless. Their voices set a harmony against which hers soared.

"Do you recognize her?" Lark had sidled up to the men.

Riker found it hard to peel his eyes away from the stage. "No. Should I?"

She shrugged. "Every great artist deserves to be remembered. Then again, maybe nothing's meant to last forever. It makes me sad, though, thinking about how much as already been lost."

Riker considered her downcast expression.

"But," he countered, "as much as things are lost, there's always something that eventually takes its place."

"Everything's relative, I guess." She smiled. "But is the replacement as good as the thing it replaces?"

"Is merit measurable?" he asked. "Surely value is arbitrary? A culture, or a generation within a culture, establishes value. They discard what has lost value and preserve that which they treasure."

She considered his response.

"All musical styles evolve. And a generation will naturally choose the sounds it wishes to represent itself. A natural selection, if you will. So, yes, there is fair argument that a superseding style can be considered greater in value  _by the people that chose it_.

"But if we could access all music, from every time? Is it possible one style may be considered greater than another in that setting?"

Riker failed to come up with a snappy answer.

"Don't let her draw you into this conversation, commander," Sudamen said.

Lark ignored him.

"Imagine musical styles were a thing you could wrap," she said. "Imagine all your friends bought you a different musical style for your birthday. Some gifts are small and simple, others big and weirdly shaped. How likely is it that you'll like each one equally?"

 _I never had a birthday cake_ , Riker thought.  _Ever_.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Sudamen picked up his bottle. "If you don't mind, I think I'll just enjoy the concert from over there."

The tall man pushed his way closer to the stage.

Lark wasn't about to give up her birthday present analogy.

"Are you drawn to the biggest present? The one with the strangest shape? Or the most regular shape? The one with the nicest paper or the best presentation? Or, are all they all identical? Or all the same weight. The same shape – just your average plain package."

Riker rejected a wisecrack about packages that came to mind. Then again, didn't that joke have it's origins somewhere in the twentieth century? He didn't know the answer to that either.

"Is it really important to have an answer?" he asked. "Regardless, your example only works as a single point of view. Not unless you've suddenly been decreed the grand determiner of musical value for all time."

Fearing he sounded snide, he said, "Can't you just say music is what it is and get on with the job of whatever it is you do with music?"

She fixed him with a glare.

"Most of the time that's exactly what I do," she said. "But haven't you ever wondered what music from, for example, ancient Egypt sounded like. What melodies they had – whether an ancient Egyptian composed a song so beautiful that if it were discovered and played today it would be a new sound to you – a new sound that you liked and were thankful to have heard?"

"You've obviously thought about this at considerable length," Riker said drily.

"Impossibilities frustrate me a little." She laughed. "Did that all sound way too silly? I try not to let my wilder speculations get in the way when I'm teaching. Sometimes, you just want to share an idea, though, no matter how ridiculous. Just to put the thought out there."

"So, it's not just millennial music you like ... you think there might be some ancient lullabies you could be just as passionate about? What about modern music?"

"At the risk of sounding dogmatic, most of what passes for popular today is shite."

Riker gave a low whistle. "Harsh. Hope you show more mercy when you grade your students."

She smiled.

"I can't put my finger on it, but none of today's music really engages me the same way millennial music does."

She turned a glass on its base, sinking into a thought.

"It's weird, you know. We talk about millennial music, but the term is deceptive. In my field of study – I'm an anthropologist – I don't just look at what music was produced in the period. I study what music the millennials used to express their culture. Where they used that music. How they sourced it. Where it came from. It was the age of sampling – a kind of historical and cultural cannibalism. That's the biggest paradox I find in the period. Sure, it was also regarded as the age of waste and rampant consumerism – but the millennials get the blame for something they inherited, not a problem they solely created for themselves."

Riker found himself caught in her sympathy.

"Music in the twentieth century went through the most amazing flux and development. It was only inevitable that technology would eventually impact upon music the same way it did other facets of society. Those developments irrevocably changed the way societies functioned. Self-imposed limits and taboos inherent in a society couldn't develop as quickly –  _as they were_  they were no longer relevant. For some time, world cultures operated blindly in a new kind of world where the old constraints no longer held them back. Everything was cast against the frame of a market economy. In later decades, an American president made the first now infamous reference to people as consumers. The groundwork was laid. Consumers, good, bad, old, young knew what the agenda was. 'Growth' they cried. 'Without economic growth we will fail, we will die.' There was an impossible-to-believe-in-hindsight lack of disregard for one important factor."

"Earth's fixed resources," Riker said, familiar with the theory.

"The universe has yet to throw up the magic bag of infinite supply. We remember that now. We factor that into how we operate life, just as any ancient culture did to ensure its self-perpetuation. But we've only achieved this by learning the hard way. The millennials deserve recognition for their own slow realization. They were born into a time when this knowledge had been lost because it no longer seemed pertinent. Sure, things got tough once they had stretched their resources to capacity and they were forced to deal with the problem head on. But, there were warning signs, and people did start reading them. There was a burgeoning sense of the limits they had to work within. The greater need to conserve and preserve, the weighing of cultural values verses straight capital gain. I have a student working on a thesis at the moment, examining links between the concept of recycling and a greater emphasis on sampling in millennial art forms."

"It was a time of gross waste, but also a time of recycling, fossicking, reuse. As fast as they wasted, they created. As fast as they wasted creation, they created from waste. That's the paradox."

"I've never really thought about it in those terms before," Riker said, stuck on some of her unusual Caldosan terminology.

Lark sipped her drink.

"Music was made to fit into the economic framework, like everything else. It became just another commodity. All of a sudden there was more, and it was more readily available - but fortunately that didn't necessarily cheapen all of it. Okay, sure, these guys invented the concept of canned music – but the good stuff – it benefited from a lot of the developments that only came about with the canned stuff, because of the vast sums of money poured into it."

"Like anything, you have to accept the good with the bad," Riker said, understanding this idea.

"Exactly."

"So, why can't you feel this way about modern music?" Privately he wondered if she considered her prejudices in the same light as she saw others' dislike of the millennial period.

"The same way you can like one character in a story and dislike another. It's all about personality, Will. We have our ups and downs these days – the war has obviously spread a blackness across many people's hearts. But, in other ways – ours is the society that inherited humanity's ability to, in the end, get things right. We're too perfect now to produce shattering, electrifying, tear-your-heart-out music.

"We need to mess up more."

Her gaze wandered to the musicians on stage. Riker got the impression for a second she was galaxies away; pensive – looking not at a holographic trick of subatomic particles but reaching back through time to see a long dead singer deliver a heart-stopping performance just one more time.

"And the society which we have decried as fatuous, self-absorbed and infantile - it produced some truly beautiful sounds. Music is a reflection of culture. The emotion you find in twentieth century and millennial music is infinite, because they had it all, selfishness, selflessness, a world balanced by its good and its bad, every conceivable shade of gray, a desire to be saved, their own sense of impending doom ..."

Riker considered her. "Yes," he said gravely, "but we have better speakers."

"This is true." Her laughter seemed slightly irreverent against the passionate singing of the woman on stage.

" _Sleep has left me alone to carry the weight of unraveling where we went wrong."_

A chill shivered up his spine. The lyrics jolted him. He had been on his way to talk to _her_  before he had become distracted.

" _How stupid could I be? A simpleton could see that you're no good for me, but you're the only one I see … everything changes."_

That was wrong, he thought. The song had it all wrong. She wasn't wrong for him. They were exactly right for each other ...  _everything changes_.

And, just like that, his stomach lurched. A stitch-like pain was tearing the muscles in his abdomen.

"You'll have to excuse me." He was up and desperately hurrying for the exit before Lark had time to ask him if he was okay.

Outside he doubled over against the wall. His hands pushed into the sides of his head as he sank. Panic gripped him.

Gritting his teeth and pushing through the pain he tapped his comm badge.

"Counselor Troi?"

The comm was silent.

"Riker to Troi. Deanna?"

Frantically, he went through his options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's Your Head At? by Basement Jaxx  
> Stupid, by Sarah McLachlan


	5. Shadowboxer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troi gets knocked out and a dead guy is found stuffed in a Jefferies tube.

**Shadowboxer**

Counselor Deanna Troi didn't usually wake up wondering where in heck she was. Blinding headaches weren't a norm either - and yet here she was face down on something fuzzy, unwilling to open her eyes - certain her head had been the bottom rock in a landslide.

She made an effort to lift herself, getting no further than an inch from the ground. She collapsed onto the furry surface again. Her cheek landed on something cold and damp. And sticky.

 _Ugh_ , she groaned. Her fingers explored the floor by her mouth. Great, just great – her head hurt, she had no idea where she was or why, and she had dribbled on the upholstery.

How often did the ship self-clean the floor, she wondered.

The effort to think was too much; she blacked out again. Barely hearing the running steps or a distraught voice calling her name.

In the blackness, she was allowed one thought –  _he's here -_ and it gave her all the comfort she needed.

* * *

Hands were touching her, on her neck or her wrist - she was too woozy to know the difference. She was being cradled, she felt arms gently pull her up. Hair was brushed out of her face and a muffled voice engaged in a strange one-way conversation.

Struggling to move, she tugged on fabric attached to her rescuer.

"Will?" she whispered.

"Help's on its way, Deanna. Don't move unless you have to."

The request was reasonable, but did he have to be so rude about it, she wondered. As though somehow this whole situation was  _her_  fault. Besides, what was  _he_  doing, moving her?

"Will," she tried again. She was sure there was something important she had to say. "Will, how does the ship stay so clean?"

 _Gods, where did that come from?_  That wasn't what she had wanted to say. Was it? A soft shh and a tightened grip was all she got.

She fought and mastered an extreme urge to sneeze. The tickling in her nostrils disappeared, replaced by spasms of pain ripping her stomach. It couldn't be helped; she gagged, unable to retain dinner.

Riker swore quietly and wiped her mouth.

Tears were squeezed out of her eyes. She couldn't work out _what_ Riker used to wipe her mouth; it had the soft silkiness of her new dressing gown.

Purged, she lay in his arms ironically wondering why things couldn't be like this between them more often - until a distant noise indicated the arrival of medical assistance (an anti-grav cart from the sound of it). It wasn't exactly manhandling, but her knight-in-shining-armor seemed awfully keen to let go of her before anyone else got too close to see them.

New hands took over, carefully lifting her onto the cart. She hadn't realized how cold she was until a thermal blanket was tucked around her. It reminded her of bed and sleep and really, really good dreams. Was that it? Was that what she had needed to tell him? Something about dreams?

"Hey. You're not thinking about nodding off are you?" The rude voice was back. He was personally affronted. The idea of her sleeping completely offended him. That was certainly bizarre. What did it all mean?

The strain to remember triggered another wave of cramps. She give a shallow gasp, readying herself for the inevitable. One of the nice,  _concerned_  peoples helped her upright and rubbed her back as she heaved.

As she snuggled back under the blanket, Riker's hand shook her shoulder.

"No you don't," he said. "Not if you have a concussion. You're going to ride this one out, Counselor, if I have to prop your eyelids open with toothpicks."

"The commander's right, Counselor," the helpful one said. "You need to stay awake, at least until you've been checked out by the doctor."

"Traitor."

"She's delirious, sir."

"She's not delirious. She's just feeling sorry for herself."

It was a silly front. Troi knew Riker's tone and manner masked worry. And,  _he knew_  she knew. Her stubbornness in willfully misreading his demeanor was just as stupid ... and petulant.

So there they were, both knowing something to be true and both idiotically avoiding it. Like children.

 _All must be right with the world_ , she thought, almost snorting.  _Here we are, back on a familiar battlefield._

Only, the childishness had been a recent development.

"Try opening your eyes, Deanna."

"Do I have to?" she muttered.

"I can make it an order if you want."

The sharp light was piercing. She grimaced. Riker placed his hand above her head, shading her from the overhead lights.

"Thanks." She could make him out now. He had his serious face on. The same face he had been wearing for weeks.

"You could tell me why you've been such a grouch this week," she said, hoping to make him smile. "That might keep me awake – you know, laughing at the pathetic excuses you come up with."

Her face blanched in misery as her body told her she had exerted herself beyond her means.

"In case you haven't noticed,  _Counselor ..._ "

She never liked it when he stressed her title, as though she was about to get a telling off from an irritated father. Lord knew, she already had one dictatorial parent.

"... You're the one headed toward a biobed in sickbay because of a vicious head wound that can not be explained by any normal course of events. That officially makes you the patient. And, that means for the time being you answer either my questions or any questions put to you by your doctor. Do I make myself clear?"

"I have a head wound?"

Hands swooped on her, pinning her arms to her sides when she tried to reach up to feel her skull.

"The ship is sucking up a sizable quantity of your precious blood from the carpet in that corridor."

"There was blood?" she said. "I thought I'd just dribbled."

She never got the chance to hear his response. The doors to sickbay slid open and the medical attendants bustled her in, where Beverly Crusher was waiting.

The doctor fussed over her for some time while Riker hovered in the background.

By the time Beverly had run her diagnostic equipment over Troi and was satisfied with her ministrations, the party had swelled to include the captain and the ship's new security officer, Lieutenant Christine Vale.

Vale was reporting to the captain and first officer. Troi wasn't privy to their conversation. The doctor was still healing to the wound on her head.

"Not as bad as it looks," she said, when Troi asked for a description. "I'm pretty sure the hair will grow back over the bald patch ..."

Troi craned her neck to give the doctor her best baleful look.

"... I'll give you something for the nausea and the headache, but you'll need to rest this one out," Crusher went on. "Whoever hit you did a good job of it – I'd say he used his fist, but the tricorder hasn't picked up any DNA."

"I'm not sure I remember anything," Troi stated when the doctor finally gave the others permission to approach and question her. The sickening cramps had gone, and although she was lightheaded, she was able to sit up without the feeling her head was going to spin away.

"There must be something you can tell us," Riker said. "You didn't get that bump running backward into a bulkhead at warp speed. Do you have any inkling as to why you were on that floor at that time of night?"

She bit back the temptation to suggest she might have had a midnight assignation with another crew member ... or one of the guests on aboard. "Maybe I was looking for someone?"

"Since we can not establish a cause or motive for this attack, Counselor, I've arranged for a security detail to accompany you to your quarters,"the captain said. "There is no need to worry. The lieutenant has security combing the ship for any signs of trouble."

A wave of dizziness swept Troi.

Riker caught the change in her immediately. "Still with us?"

She didn't feel with them in the room. She was sunk in the memory. "He was brimming with joy."

Will took her hand.

"There was no malice in his actions," she said, still in a trance. "Absolutely no malice, it was just a moment of pure luck. An almost unbelievable stroke of fortune. He was happy. Then he hit me."

"Did you see him?" Vale asked.

"I didn't even hear him. I  _sensed_  him just before he hit me. He was"-she paused, searching for the right word-"absorbed. Thinking intently. It's like he turned a corner, saw me, had the opportunity to hit me and it made him very, very happy. There was no sense of satisfaction that might come from the thrill of the hunt – he didn't even know me."

"He gets his kicks out of cold coxing random people in the small hours of night?" Riker asked.

"No, he didn't kick me, he definitely hit me," Troi said.

"You're certain he didn't know you. Nor you him?" Vale wasn't here to banter. All of them, with the exception of the security officer, who looked totally professional, had clearly been roused from or preparing for sleep. But Vale was on alert. It comforted Troi to know this woman took her job seriously.

Troi shook her head. "He was a stranger to me."

"Would you recognize him if you sensed him again?" Riker asked.

Troi gave her beloved a withering look. "Of course, but a line up won't be necessary."

They stared at her.

"He's dead."

She looked at them all. They continued to stare back.

"That's what I was trying to remember."

She sensed Will's frustration but refused to feel guilty. Her memory was not in its usual peak condition. They would have to be patient and wait for the sensations to come back to her piecemeal. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, hoping the mediative pose would hasten the retrieval process.

"He hit me."

She started with what she knew was true.

"As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I knew he was in pain. All over. He was burning. I don't know how. He can't have been very far from me. I couldn't help him. He was confused and dying. I could feel it. That's what I remember."

Riker shuddered, all his worry flowing through their bond.

He would know what that admission had cost her to say. Humans were funny sometimes, she thought. Their ability to empathize seemed so much more of a talent to her than her own natural ability. Her sense of other people came as easily as opening her eyes to see. But humans had to rely on their experiences and ability to imagine their responses in a situation to achieve empathy. Some of them were very good at it. The support they offered her, without knowing it, helped balance the remembered pain of suffering and death.

With a new lead to go on, Vale conferred quickly with Picard, and wished Troi well, before hurrying out of the room. She would be going back to the scene of the attack. Troi wished she were going with the new officer. Now that she remembered what had happened, she was eager to get to the bottom of the mystery – but the stress of the evening had caught up with her and she couldn't stifle a large yawn.

"Beverly has okayed you returning to your room," Riker said, helping Troi up. "You're allowed to rest in your own bed, but only if someone's there to keep an eye on you. Guess that's me."

"Surely that's not necessar-"

"Doctor's orders."

"That's settled then," Picard said. "Commander, Counselor, you are both relieved of your bridge duties tomorrow. Counselor, I expect you to adhere to the doctor's orders until such time as she deems you suitable to return to duty." He turned to Riker. "And I expect you to get a decent sleep once Deanna has rested, Number One."

The first officer stiffened almost imperceptibly. Troi didn't miss it.

He was terrified, literally terrified of the thought of sleep, she realized, with a sinking feeling that the source of this problem was not going to be easily dealt to.

She waited to broach the topic with him until they reached her cabin. But Will was ready for her. Allowing her no time to question him, he hurried her to change (blood had stained her nightwear and dressing gown) and had turned down the sheets by the time she had exited the bathroom.

"No more talking, Deanna," he said. "Beverly wants you to lie still and rest. I'll be here to monitor you through the night."

Her selfish body told her not to argue, and the bed (which he had had to straighten suggesting she had already tried sleep earlier in the evening) looked appealing. He would brook no argument, but she refused to go under without one warning shot.

"You and I are going to have serious talk in the morning, Commander."

He refused to give her any sign he knew she was talking specifically about him. "We should know more about what's going on by the time you wake up."

* * *

Riker had plenty to think about as he dropped onto a couch in Troi's sitting room. The sleep he had been chasing away all evening had given up. Now, his brain was racing. He relived that moment when he had found her, bloodied and still.

On the holodeck he had asked the computer to locate her, but before it had time to answer he had been on his feet and running in her direction. The pain had been hers, he was sure, so he pushed through it. He was not sure how long it had taken to reach her. Not long, but time enough for her attacker to meet his demise, in whatever way that had been achieved. He felt certain the man had been dead before he arrived. Troi wouldn't have let a dying man go without some effort to help him.

He had hurtled down the corridor, regardless to how he might look to anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. Lieutenant Chafin managed to jump out of his way, but only just.

Then he had seen her.

She had been a tiny black and white heap ... but the red seeping down the back of her white dressing gown was visible even from that distance. He sprinted, tapping his comm as his legs ate up the gap between them.

It wasn't a new thing for Beverly Crusher. She'd been dealing with Riker and Troi for years. She'd probably lost track of the times she had been disturbed with a desperate plea for medical attention. She had asked him to describe what he saw.

He had knelt beside Troi, holding back his shock at the sight of the gash on her head and the blood-matted hair which did little to stem the seepage.

He called to her, but got no response. Quickly he had searched for her hand. Her pulse was thready. He couldn't help himself. Basic first aid be damned. He wanted her to feel secure – to know – on whatever level she was, that help was on its way. He had gently lifted her into his lap.

She had whispered his name.

He told her to be quiet and rest. That she had spoken was a good sign, but he wasn't able to put aside his concern immediately. The wound on her head was no accident and the danger that an attacker might be holed up waiting for another chance to finish the job had him on alert. The sooner Vale got here, the better.

The security officer turned up just as Troi was being placed on the cart.

Riker had explained what he found, which wasn't much, he realized.

"A shipwide search has already begun," the woman assured him.

It could be anyone, Riker wanted to point out. Until they spoke to Troi, they would have to rely on instinct and suspicion to proceed.

"Have the computer access washroom and cabin logs as well as the floor log. I doubt Troi's attacker came off without so much as a bruise. If he bloodied himself he'll need to wash his hands to avoid detection."

He had needed to do something as the medical assistants finished stabilizing Troi.

"Contact me, as soon as you have something," he had said curtly to Vale as he stalked after the cart.

Now, for the second time today, he was waiting for the security officer to contact him. His mind sorted the puzzle pieces, but no matter how many angles he examined, too many pieces of the puzzle were missing to form a clear picture.

He considered motivations for the attack. The man may not have known Troi personally, but the opportunity to strike her had been too good to waste. Had the man intended to permanently remove her from the picture? Was she about to stumble unwittingly over a scene she couldn't be allowed to remember or talk about? Or was the attack simply to distract security from something else? Neither of those ideas seemed likely, if, as Troi had intimated, there was no degree of premeditation about the attack. If she had been specifically targeted, then why?

 _Because of what she was._ Someone on board had something they wanted to hide, which Troi potentially could have exposed. A secret worth injuring or, possibly, killing for. It was the only reasonable explanation his brain could turn up and accept.

"Vale to Commander Riker."

"Have you got him?" He wasn't in any mood to waste time on banalities.

"A body has been found jammed into a narrow Jefferies tube ten meters from where the counselor lay. It will be extracted as soon as a scene analysis is completed."

"How long will that take?"

"Lieutenant Korran must examine of the far end of the tube before the body is removed. She has entered the access system and is there now. She expects to be finished soon."

"Any indication who it is?"

"Human ... beyond that ..."

Her hesitation said something peculiar was going on. "The manner the body has been impacted into the tube makes identification impossible to determine at this point. Cause of death is also as yet unknown, although it maybe safe to presume he had help getting himself into this position."

Meaning in every likelihood a murderer was on the loose on the  _Enterprise_.

_Great. Just great._

"Keep me updated." Riker didn't doubt the new officer would work exhaustively to cover all possibilities in the search. She wouldn't have gotten the post if she wasn't the right person for the job.

Murders on Starfleet vessels were unusual. Floor logs, security data, advanced forensic technology should ensure any murderer didn't stay conceal for long.

But Riker felt oddly ambiguous toward the killer. He had rid the ship of someone who posed a threat to Deanna – he couldn't be all bad then, could he?

Mind you, the body had been jammed – impacted – into the tube. Vale's dispassionate choice of language evoked in the first officer a sense of pity for the dead man. Ignominy in death – crammed unceremoniously into a tube and left to die.

He tried to imagine the thoughts that might assault a dying man stuffed headfirst into a confined space. Troi said he had been happy, perhaps deliriously so. Between then and Troi's later awareness of his pain, something had gone horribly wrong for him. Did despair overtake him as swiftly as joy had?

Troi had lived through the man's death. She had given them as much as they needed to know about the experience. He wondered what she had left out. It can't have been pleasant.

He had wanted to put his arms around her. He had seen death, smelled it, heard the pain that could sometimes accompany it, even thought he was about to have a more intimate knowledge of it a few times, but to share someone else's feelings as they were dying – he would pass on that experience.

If thoughts of his own unique bond surfaced in his mind, he quickly tamped them.

The stress of the day finally had him cornered and a desperate need to shut out the waking world took precedence. Dragging himself off the couch, he went to the door leading to Troi's bed. The low rhythmic sound of her breathing reassured him she really was okay. He made it to the chair beside her bed, but once his head slumped onto the thick, comfy armrest he knew the battle was lost.

The computer would tell him if anything was wrong, was his last leaden thought.

* * *

He woke to an almost novel sensation. Seconds passed before he realized what it was.

"You look better."

Riker looked up at Troi standing in the doorway. "Shouldn't I be saying that to you?"

She was already dressed in her uniform. Riker couldn't remember the doctor clearing her for duty. He scrambled up from the chair.

"Damn. How long have I been out?"

She hastened to calm him.

"Will, relax. You've probably had about ten hours of uninterrupted, decent sleep - despite the absolute lack of comfort." She had a small smile. "Maybe we should make you sleep in a chair more often."

"I told Vale to update me when she found out who that man was."

The slip in professionalism made him want to kick himself.

"And I told Vale, when she tried to get your attention this morning, you could wait to hear it."

Troi moved into the room, confronting him. "Don't you dare try to deny you needed that sleep."

"Okay. I have had a few sleepless nights - I was probably just stressed by the requests. I feel fine, really."

All his resolve to confess vanished. Standing here, looking her in the eyes, he couldn't bring himself to start the conversation. There had been nothing unsettling in his dreams last night – in fact, if he had dreamed, he had no memory of it now. Maybe it  _had_ been the added stress of dealing with the crew's displeasure.

Although she was smiling, she seemed ... tired.

He deflected the conversation back her way. "Did Beverly say you could resume work?"

"A meeting's being held to discuss what happened last night," she said. "I'm not missing it."

"Did I get an invite to the party?"

"Now that you're awake, I suppose it would be pointless to try and keep you from it."

"Do I have time to get changed?"

"And time left over for a wash," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Have a shower, Will. I'll arrange you a fresh uniform. And Will?"

He was already on his way to her bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder.

"I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadowboxer, by Fiona Apple


	6. (Bring It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troi is not at her best; someone went to a lot of trouble to kill the dead guy.

**(Bring it)**

"Festa Sem - attaché to the Volln'm ambassador," Christine Vale said.

Troi studied the picture of the dead man on screen. It was a generic shot, lifted from his diplomatic identification chip. Sem wasn't smiling when the image was taken. His hair, an unremarkable sandy blond, was neither long nor short, and nothing in particular about his features stood out. He had been tall and bulky, and - presumably - strong, but seeing the picture didn't change anything for Troi. The picture meant nothing. It was the man's agony and confusion as he lay dying that had imprinted on her.

"He came aboard at Starbase 313 from the  _Fleur-de-lys_."

Vale turned to Riker, who had arrived at the meeting invigorated after his long sleep and shower.

The _Enterprise's_  senior staff had gathered in the conference room. The counselor had been greeted with concern by her male colleagues. Chief engineer Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge had risen; Data had asked her how she was. The doctor, however, had raised an eyebrow when Troi glanced at her. Deanna looked away quickly.

"I remember him," Riker said. "Quiet. Unassuming. He was traveling alone – said the ambassador had gone on ahead of him."

"However, Owat Djon - the Volln'm ambassador - claims it is impossible that this man was Festa Sem," Vale said, bringing up a picture of a different man. This one was shorter and older. Much older. "The ambassador says the real Festa Sem was part of his diplomatic core until his death six months ago. Mr Sem, who lived to an advanced age of 107, died of untreated liver disease on Volln'm."

"Then who is the dead man? And how did he get on my ship?" Picard asked.

"The identification chip he carried is Sem's, although the personal information tags have been altered. The ambassador said his office was breached in a data heist not long after Sem's death. The information could have been stolen then."

"Standards sound a bit lax on Volln'm, don't they?" Riker said.

Picard turned to Doctor Crusher. "Can we know if the man found in the shaft was from Volln'm?"

"He's human," Crusher replied. "Volln'm was settled by Terrans late in the twenty-first century. It was one of the first planets to undergo Terra forming. It maintains close ties with Earth, and has a virtually homogeneous genetic make up, making it difficult to determine if he was from Volln'm, from Earth or from any of the other planets in the system with a shared earth heritage. We can put his age between 45 and 53 and about the only thing he shared in common with the real Festa Sem was damage to his liver ... the kind of damage caused by habitual long-term consumption of alcohol."

Riker flicked the picture back to the imposter. "Have we had anymore luck establishing what did kill him?" How he died was more important, for the moment, than who he was.

Crusher smiled at the first officer. "You're going to like this one ... venom."

"What ... like from a snake bite?"

"Exactly like a snake bite – the inland taipan or fierce snake, as it is also known, to be precise, which in itself is unusual since the Terran inland taipan is commonly thought to be extinct."

Disbelief flooded Vale's face. "Doctor, should we be warning crew members to be on the lookout for a marauding serpent?"

The doctor smiled again.

"Let me put you ophidiophobs out of your misery. Mr Sem, or whoever he was, was killed by a lethal dose of  _artificially_  concentrated reptile venom. Whoever made it used real snake venom but quadrupled its potency. And it wasn't injected into his tissue. It was sealed in a synthetic pouch which was then planted subcutaneously under his left armpit."

Picard looked relieved. "It would have been impossible to smuggle a live snake on board."

"You can't fool the computer," Crusher said dryly.

"So ... did the pouch leak?" LaForge asked.

"I don't believe so," Crusher said. "I think the pouch was designed to dissolve in a human body after fifty hours. However, when I found the pouch, it was still intact. I estimate it had about ten more hours to go."

"If it hadn't dissolved, how was venom released?" Riker asked. "Why did he die when he did?"

"I think an abrupt movement caused it to rupture prematurely."

"An abrupt movement such as striking something with considerable force?" Vale asked.

"That would do it."

Troi twisted in her chair next to Riker.  _And he thought he was so lucky_.

"If the doctor's theory is correct," Data said, "the pouch must have been inserted before Mr Sem beamed aboard the  _Enterprise_."

Picard stroked his chin. "But not much sooner. Have the passengers he came aboard with been questioned?"

"Sem was traveling alone," Vale replied. "He joined the  _Fleur-de-lys_  at the last minute. No one admits knowing him or even talking to him for any length of time. His credentials were authorized, so his story was accepted."

"Then who stuffed him in the tube?" Riker asked bluntly. "And why? I doubt it was any crew member. And how likely is it that a corpse would remain undetected?"

"Not long enough for the murderer to slip away at the next destination," La Forge said.

"We can not rule out the possibility he climbed into the shaft himself," Data said. "The counselor's blood was detected at the scene, as were bloody prints belonging to the dead man. Detailed forensic scene analysis is yet to turn up evidence of a third person - unless the counselor is able to confirm the presence of another person?"

Her colleagues turned to her. Troi mulled the question with a poker face, but gave Crusher a side ward glance.

"I sensed only this Sem. There's no one on board who I shouldn't have been able to sense - but I can't categorically say a third or even a fourth person wasn't involved. I have no way of knowing how long I was unconscious."

Riker did not miss her slight hesitation or the look she gave the doctor, but he did not draw attention to it.

"Didn't you say he was wedged tightly into the space, Christine?" he asked, "as though he had been jammed in? Seems unlikely he got himself into that position without a helping hand."

Vale nodded. "Those were my thoughts, as well, sir."

"That may be so, Commander, but nothing corroborates the possibility of a third person yet," Data said.

Picard leaned forward with a glint in his eye. "Beyond speculation, people, we need a plan."

So much for their peaceful mission to Ark11.

"Mr Sem is our top priority for the moment. We need to know why he attacked Counselor Troi and why he was murdered. Data, I want you to focus on identifying the debris you found yesterday. That, in turn,  _may_  answer our questions about the  _Bounty_."

"On the topic of the debris, Captain," Data said, "my analysis has determined the explosion was an internal one."

"Caused by?"

"Perhaps something the ship was carrying exploded accidentally," La Forge mused. "Do we know what was being transported on the  _Bounty_?"

"I expect that information today," Data said.

La Forge's face lit up. "Say, do we know how old the  _Bounty_  is? It's rare, but some old transporters used to have tritium rigged auto-destruct mechanisms – the tritium reaction could be more accurately controlled than other options at the time, making it the ideal element for the initial self-destruct functions of early spacecraft."

Data shook his head. "I am sorry, Commander. The  _Bounty_  was commissioned twenty-nine years ago, well beyond the age when tritium was a regular component on starships."

The information about the  _Bounty_  was useful, but moved them no closer to solving the more pressing issue of what to do about the morgue's newly acquired dead body. Picard marshaled his troops and set about organizing practical measures for dealing with the problem.

"Vale, continue your investigation into Festa Sem's death. I think it's time to conduct more thorough interviews with the guests he came aboard with."

"Aye, sir. I have already requested a manifest from Captain Kogaru on the  _Fleur-de-lys_ ," Vale said.

"Good. Number One, perhaps you could see to Mr Sem's personal belongings?"

"I'll have my medical staff research the venom," Crusher said. "It may turn out to be one of the more fruitful avenues to explore. If there  _are_  any inland taipan snakes still alive, they should not be hard to trace."

"Good thinking," Picard agreed. "Counselor, your insights will be invaluable with passenger interviews. As soon as you're cleared by the doctor I'd like you to join Vale's team."

Troi kept her face still, giving nothing more than a quick nod to the captain.

"Captain, what do you want us to tell the passengers?" Vale asked. "We can't exactly conduct an investigation in secret. People are going to start asking questions."

"We can't afford subtlety in this investigation, or invite accusations of a cover up. Let it be known he died from a lethal dose of a toxic substance that was likely delivered before he joined the  _Enterprise_. There's no need to say anymore."

"Just to conclude, then," Riker said, "there may or may not be a murderer on the loose. We have no idea who our dead man is, where he's from, what he was doing, who killed him or how he got stuck in an access tube on our ship. Have I left anything out?"

"Why he was killed?" La Forge suggested.

"Why snake venom?" Crusher added.

Troi coughed. "Or why he hit me?"

She felt Riker's attention and almost regretted speaking. She had been determined to talk with him the night before; now their roles were reversed. He would know soon enough; she just needed time to collect her thoughts.

"Clearly our guest had something to hide. Whatever he was concealing, it was obviously worth the risk of attacking a senior Starfleet officer."

"What could have been that important?" Vale asked curiously.

The faces around the table were thoughtful. Picard let out a soft 'hmm'. Riker had his chin in his hand; Troi stared at her hands in her lap.

The discovery of the body had overshadowed her role in the events of the night before, for which she was thankful. As much as she had gone over what happened, there were holes in her memory that she struggled to fill. What was she doing on that deck? What made her get out of bed?

She had been careful to maintain a calm face during the meeting, to mask her frustration, and not just because of the lost memories. Crusher had been looking at her intently, so she knew this was one thing she couldn't keep secret. Not that she was going to let it stay secret. Until she had discussed it with the doctor, though, she would stay quiet.

The meeting closed. If the senior staff were daunted by the number of unanswered questions they were dealing with, no one let on. Instead, they finalized their individual responsibilities, and prepared to get on with the job.

"A word, Deanna?" Crusher caught up with the counselor as she exited behind the others.

* * *

The dead man traveled light.

It hadn't taken Riker long to go through his possessions. The Festa Sem imposter had stored a single bag at the bottom of a cupboard. He'd removed several spare changes of clothes and undergarments, and put them, folded, on shelves above the bag. The bed had been made – Riker was amused to find nightwear tucked under a pillow. A brush, razor and toothbrush were set up on a vanity in the bathroom. The only thing out-of-kilter was a half-used bottle of some sort of hygiene spray, and its cap which sat on the bench next to the bottle. Riker pulled a face when he checked the label of the Shinox 'body odor neutralizing adhesive gas'. His tricorder told him the smelly stuff was a Volln'm product.

Nothing the dead man owned said much about him, although his apparent need for neatness made Riker think the man must have been a fastidious character.

Riker went back to the cupboard to take another look at the clothes.

Plain gray pants and tunics - they didn't seem out-of-character for someone masquerading as a diplomat's assistant.

It didn't make sense to Riker. Sem had been hiding something – there was no other reason for him to attack Deanna. But whatever it was, it wasn't in his room. The man had hardly been on the ship and he hadn't come aboard with anything else. His transfer to the  _Enterprise_  had been unplanned. Until they knew what he was doing on the other ship, they would simply be guessing.

Riker picked up a pair of trousers again, shaking them out in frustration. Their construction and design were standard – not Riker's preference in fashion, but serviceable, none-the-less. There was evidence of a small tear and reparation along the inner waist hem. He assumed the garment chip had been removed, and confirmed it when he ran a tricorder over the patch. If the chip had been there, the tricorder would have beeped and given Riker a reading on where the garment originated, instructions on caring for it and what it was made of.

Actually, the tricorder could do the last two things without the chip. But it couldn't tell him where the pants were made.

He was about to toss them on the floor when his gaze fell on almost invisible seams on one side – a cunningly constructed pocket.

The first pair didn't yield anything, neither did the second pair, but in the third pair his luck turned.

His fingers clasped something tiny.

His curiosity dissolved into disgust when he examined the object in the palm of his hand. He mastered his desire to drop it. Instead, he tapped his comm unit.

"Yes, Commander?" responded the doctor.

"Beverly, did Sem have any piercings?"

"He had an earring in his right ear lobe."

"Anything else?" Riker asked, waiting as the doctor consulted her notes.

"Actually, yes. In the center of his tongue, of all places – no ornament, just a hole."

Riker stared distastefully at the tiny object in his hand. "Do you have any idea what he would have put through his tongue?"

"It depends. There are any number of ornamental tongue piece styles. Come on, Will – what have you got there? Spit it out," she teased.

"I can assure you, whatever I have, it's not in my mouth ... it looks like a small barbell."

Crusher's laughter crackled through the unit.

"Does this tell us anymore about Sem?" Riker asked. "Maybe where he's from?"

"It could do," was all the doctor would say.

* * *

Troi was looking forward to a drink in Ten Forward. Beverly had declared her fit for duty yesterday immediately after the senior staff meeting - despite the impairment she was still suffering after the attack - and she had jumped into the investigation.

"You're, um, not going to go all defensively aggressive on us again, are you?" the doctor had asked as they had made their way to the turbolift.

Troi had rewarded her with a pained smile. "This time I'm just going to grin and bare it. It'll be an opportunity to practice some of my under-developed human traits ... I am impressed you could tell, however."

"I was waiting for you to tell me." It felt like one of those occasions when the doctor might be a smidgen irritated. Troi willed herself to be calm. She closed her eyes and started a breathing exercise to regain control of herself. Beverly let her collect her thoughts.

"Honestly, Beverly, I just didn't notice last night."

Beverly looked skeptical.

"No, really. It's not like last time. Last time I lost everything totally. Gods, it was awful," she said, dredging up the painful memory.

"And this time?"

"Well, I don't think I noticed, because last night, I could still sense Will. I couldn't do that last time. I still can, in fact. I was probably too dazed to think about anyone else last night. It wasn't until this morning when I was waiting for Will to wake up that I thought about how 'quiet' it was. The last sense I remember was my attacker dying."

The doctor hadn't lost her dubious face, but she seemed to accept Troi's explanation.

"Pop back with me to sickbay and we'll do a couple of tests. Unless I find something untoward, I don't see why I shouldn't recommend you get back to work."

"I intend to tell the captain," Troi said. "I wanted to have it checked out by you first – I mean, that I can still feel Will makes me confident this is only temporary. Who knows? Things could be back to normal in a couple of hours."

"I'm sure you're right, Deanna. The stress of experiencing the man's death and the concussion have most likely had an adverse affect on your brain chemistry. Let me be the first to say how relieved I am with the way you are taking it."

Troi raised her hand to mock smack Crusher.

In sickbay the doctor hadn't found anything in her scans to alarm her. She put Troi's diminished empathic ability down to the knock she had received, and told Troi to check in with her at the end of the day to see if the condition had worn off.

Captain Picard had been informed that while the counselor was without one of her usual abilities, she was still capable of working (and was particularly keen to do something, considering her involvement in the activities of the previous night).

Like Crusher, Picard received with relief the news the counselor considered herself as well as to be expected and keen to get on with it.

"If you must know, it's a dream come true," Troi informed her incredulous superior. "Ever since last time I've been nursing a little wounded pride. And shame. The whole loss-of-sense thing got me thinking more about what it would be like to live like that permanently. At first the idea was totally inconceivable. Then I started to develop a few theories on how full humans do it."

"So, what did you come up with?" Picard asked with interest.

"Well, this is just a theory – and a not unbiased one, at that." Troi smiled. "Humans, I think, have superior imaginations to Betazoids – I'd never admit that to my mother, mind you." She cast a quick look around, as if suddenly fearful the Betazoid ambassador would magically beam in. "Humans need to use their imagination to understand and empathize with others. Maybe it's too late for me ... I might be too set in my ways - too reliant on my sense – but at least I have the chance to get some real practice."

She had meant every word of it, but using cues which once she might have overlooked, she  _got the feeling_ he wasn't entirely convinced.

Whatever his feelings, he had promised her his support and wished her well. The loss was inconvenient, considering the need the crew had at the moment for a reliable assessment of their guests, but the condition was highly likely to correct itself in a day or two, and in the meantime, Troi could learn something useful about herself. It wasn't like anyone was getting off the ship anytime soon.

She had thrown herself into the investigation. News about the death had spread quickly, but Troi noted with surprise, nobody - guests or crew - seemed perturbed.

She had sat in on all of Vale's interviews, taking a passive role. She was convinced none of the passengers had known the dead man. One by one Vale had called for the  _Fleur-de-lys_  transfers and gone through the basics. Troi had studied all their faces. She had watched their postures, their movements. It was like one of the poker games the officers liked to play. No one claimed to have met the man prior to joining the small transporter; no one knew what had kept him from traveling with the ambassador. He hadn't talked about any other kind of work he was involved in. No one could remember anything specific about him while they were on the  _Fleur-de-lys_.

However, no one had seemed in the least bit concerned for the man, which Troi found odd. Surely, the stranger's plight should have touched off a moderate level of compassion. But being heartless wasn't a crime, and she had to remember that she was just going by what she  _thought_  people were feeling.

"Thank you, Dr Montgomery, that should be all. We'll contact you if we want to ask anything else," Vale said after a nod from Troi.

The enthusiastic little man left the room with a bow and florid sweep of a hand.

Troi waited until the door was shut. "Did anything about him strike you as odd?"

Vale looked up in surprise. "I let him go ... I thought you signaled me to let him go?"

Troi hurried to assure the lieutenant. "If he was lying he was very convincing ... I just thought he was a little strange. Perhaps just too accommodating."

"He was odd," Vale said, "but I don't suppose that automatically makes him our prime suspect."

"No," Troi agreed.

The security officer sighed. "So, really, we're still nowhere. It's almost obscene that a man operating under an alias could get himself onto Starfleet's best known vessel with little comment from anyone and manage to get himself killed shortly after, leaving no evidence of the event."

Troi could only agree with her. This was her first real opportunity to work with Vale. The woman had only recently transferred to the  _Enterprise_ , and while she had an easy manner and friendliness about her, Troi thought she detected an inner steeliness.

 _What would it be like if I was in her position_ , she wondered. Joining a new crew, younger than the other officers she was dealing with, without the background to understand some of the nuanced conversations they had, the in-jokes. Add to that now this embarrassing breach of the ship's security standards ... Vale wasn't giving any sign the pressure was getting to her.

"The other passengers may have nothing to do with it, but we have to talk to them. If only to cross them off the list of suspects," Troi said, hoping to encourage Vale. "Anyway, is that all of them?"

"Not quite – we still have to talk to the woman that Commander Riker is interested in, and the large guy that heads the party she came with. They seem inseparable."

Troi couldn't stop the sharp glance she gave Vale.

"The woman and the large guy, I meant," Vale said.

Troi knew the security chief was wondering if she had said something wrong. Maybe human intuition wasn't so hard after all.

"So I presumed," Troi answered blandly. "So, who is this woman?"

"With the same party as Dr Montgomery – academics heading to one of the gala ceremonies. She's been quite a hit with the crew, actually." Vale rolled her eyes. "Apparently she disabled the safety on a holosuite and proceeded to run a genuine millennial concert. I heard Dr Crusher had to deal with several cases of tinnitus the following morning. She was not happy."

 _Beverly didn't mention it to_ me, Troi thought. "She organized a concert?"

"Yeah, one concert and she's got the lower decks eating out of her hands – La Forge told me she's been running workshops all day."

"What kind of workshops?"

Vale shrugged. "Something to do with music. I saw Commander Riker heading somewhere with his trombone last night."

Troi yawned, stretching. "So, is this woman going to grace us with her presence today?"

"I had them both paged ten minutes ago." As Vale spoke the doorbell chimed.

The man entered first, casting a look about the room, which set Troi on edge.

"Are we in the right place?" he asked. A short brunette stepped out from behind him.

"Do you want to talk to us together? Or should I wait outside?" She was polite, matter-of-fact. Troi didn't observe any signs of unease from her.

Troi took in her slim build and glossy hair, parted in the center of her head. Her attire screamed her interests – she was wearing pants made out of denim, a fabric popular in the twenty and twenty-first centuries. While the pants looked snug on her hips, the bottoms were full and fell to the floor. Bright pink toenails poked out beneath the hems; she had on a type of open-toed sandal or high heel, also pink. She wore a fitted black t-shirt (of old-fashioned manufacturing style). There was pink writing across her chest. Troi pondered what 'little baby nothing' meant.

"If you could just wait outside, Miss," Vale paused to check her padd, "Lark, we'll be with you soon."

"Sure. Just call me Lark."

The exchange had given the man time to settle.

There was nothing historic about  _his_  garb – just a plain old black, knee-length tunic and gray pants. The man, Sudamen, had trimmed his beard and mustache, but Troi felt an itching desire to neaten the black curls around his ears.

He answered their questions with care, not rushing his responses. No, he and his team had not had much to do with the ambassador's attaché. He did not know if they had embarked first, or if the man had gotten on board first. They had run into him after they beamed over. He had not seen him other than on the tour and at Ten Forward. They had not chatted. He had never seen the man before - he stared sincerely at Troi as he said it - and wasn't it terrible, what had happened to him?

Her lack of empathic ability started to grate on Troi. Here was one case where she desperately wanted the reassurance of her ability to confirm the niggling feeling she had. With nothing stronger to go on, she let Vale end the interview.

In contrast, Lark was all openness. She answered candidly and simply. She gave the same answers as Sudamen, but Troi found herself believing the woman, whereas something about the man had not rung true.

"You're free to go," Vale said to her. "If you think of anything which could be useful, anything that you remember, don't hesitate to contact either myself or Counselor Troi."

Vale and Troi swapped a look when the room was empty.

"I'm thinking the man's hiding something," Vale said.

Troi nodded. "That was my impression, also. When he walked in, he seemed especially nervous. It might be time to do some digging into his background."

Her working day had ended at that point, with no sign her sense was returning. The previous evening - on her first day back at work after the attack - she had not been eager to face more people in the ship's popular off-duty hang out. She had gone straight to her room to catch up on some of the sleep she had lost. No one had paid her a visit in the evening. Remembering the last time she had lost her empathy, she wasn't surprised.

Her colleagues, she guessed, would be waiting to see how she was coping.

That morning she had woken alert and rested, but her empathy was still AWOL.

It was an unsettling feeling, similar to vertigo, and one she was tiring of. If the concern – that dreadful thought she might never sense again – was bothering her, she was practiced enough in the art of self-deception not to acknowledge it. But after a further day of emptiness, interviews, and regularly scheduled clinical duties, she felt the need for a little syntheholic commiseration.

This evening she would deal with her friends face on. Besides, something was up with the crew – there was a definite lightening of the mood. Crew walking through the ship with a spring in their step; they gave bright greetings; there were smiles. If she had been able to sense it, she would have drawn strength from it.

Oh well. If she wasn't able to benefit in that manner, at least being around happy people would be pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snakes on a Plane (Bring It), by Cobra Starship
> 
> A/N: Inland taipan numbers remain, happily, healthy ... at least for the time being.


	7. The Scientist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riker can't spot anything at all on a list of items which might have caused the Bounty to blow up (but is he reading the list right?). Crew on the Enterprise are breaking out into spontaneous song. This can't be good.

**The Scientist**

"It  _is_  a tongue barb, then?" Riker stared at the small ornament in Data's hand. He had seen some fascinating cultural adornments over the years, but the concept of poking a hole into one's tongue still made the bile in his stomach rise. The practice had developed independently on a few Federation planets, including Earth, although it was rare there now.

"It is much more than that, Commander." The android positioned the object under a microscope and pointed to the magnified image on the screen in front of them. "Notice the minuscule perforations on the larger barb end."

It hadn't taken Data long to uncover the barb's secret after Riker had the item sent to the android for examination. He had contacted Riker immediately with his news.

Riker had taken the evenly spaced pits on top of the rounded head to be part of the object's design. Apparently not. "What am I looking at, Data?"

"Aside from its aesthetic purpose"-Riker cringed-"the barb appears to be able to translate sound into a digital signal and to transmit that signal."

Riker blinked. "It's a comm device?"

Incredulity displaced distaste as he stared at the enlarged image.

"Like none I have ever seen, sir, but yes, like a comm device – although limited in function; it can only transmit. It is not enabled to receive a signal. However, when used with the ear piece Doctor Crusher took from the corpse, a complete primitive short range unit is formed."

Riker picked up an earring stud Data had laid next to the tongue barb. It was identical down to the pattern of dots on its rounded tip, clearly part of a set but constructed on a smaller scale. It was no wonder Doctor Crusher had been quick to see a connection between to the objects.

The first officer frowned. "Why wasn't this identified when Sem beamed across?"

Small finds like this concerned Will Riker. They made him wonder what else was being slipped on board. He had joked about lax standards on Volln'm. Was the joke on him, he wondered.

"The device had been disabled – almost certainly before the man joined the Enterprise. Just reactivating it aboard the ship would have been picked up by our sensors."

Riker started pacing. The seemingly covert devices cast a new, sinister shade over the dead man. "Does this tell us anything definite about Sem?"

"The barb has no manufacturing history. It is not listed on any Federation company production list, nor any of the non-Federation worlds that we have records for. It's design is simplistic, sir. It could have been privately made and some time ago at a guess."

The first officer struggled to control a sudden desire to hurl the earring across the room. He desisted. It was too small to derive any satisfaction from the act. "So it's another dead end in this investigation?"

His frustrations were steadily mounting.

There was no shortage of leads – but nothing had turned into anything more concrete. The Volln'm ambassador had not recognized the dead man and Beverly was yet to turn up anything solid on the origins of the venom. Computer security logs failed to identify anything out of the ordinary about Sem's movements. They showed the man had been wandering the ship's corridors (but not attempting to access any thing he shouldn't have been). His wanderings had been random, which fitted in with Troi's reading of the man before he struck her. There were no records of anyone else being in the vicinity of the counselor or the man when he attacked her. And, after interviewing everyone who had joined the ship at Starbase 313 Troi had only been able to come up with a funny feeling about one or two of the travelers – hardly solid, damning evidence.

Riker may have been losing it, but Data remained calm. "A dead end, sir? Perhaps not. The covert nature of the items suggests the transmitter and receiver were deliberately designed to look harmless. The wearing of tongue and ear stud pairs is habitual for certain Volln'm cultures."

"What cultures?"

Data's face indicated he was reconsidering his explanation.

"Perhaps culture was the wrong word, Commander. Generation is a more accurate term. Tongue and ear stud sets were or are predominantly worn by people from the Volln'm southern hemisphere continent Astrin who fall approximately between the ages of 68 and 42 – this coincides with the rise of a particular musical style, which has been identified as a significant cultural revolu-"

"Thank you, Data," Riker said. "That puts Sem in the right age bracket."

He stared at the screen, deep in thought.

"So, on the balance of known probabilities it's at least fair to start with the assumption Sem was from - or had ties to - Volln'm," he said. "Can we make any links between Volln'm and the delegation head from the Dunedin Institute?"

Data's facial features assumed a practiced quizzical look. "None, sir. Commander, you are thinking of Counselor Troi's report yesterday?"

"Without her empathic abilities, Troi can only go on her intuition." He didn't want to downplay her suggestion, but they needed to be careful how they chose to follow up on it.

"But you are giving her assessment some thought," Data said.

Riker took a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Sudamen told me his group nearly got on the  _Bounty_. I didn't think anything of it at the time. After Vale briefed us yesterday, I felt it expedient to check on him. Troi may not have her usual skills to work with, but intuition can be a strange and uncanny thing, Data."

"I believe you, Commander Riker," Data replied.

Thinking of Troi reminded Riker he owed the counselor a visit to check on her.

He was hurt she hadn't told him she had lost her sensing ability again. She must have known when he woke in her quarters two days ago. She had given no sign. Not until the doctor checked her did she share the news with her senior staff colleagues.

It had upset him.

The day he found out, he had planned to visit her in the evening, but stopped himself. It had been a trying day, and she probably needed as much sleep as she could get. Vivid memories of the brittle way she had rejected his concern last time had made him wary of approaching her.

Yet, at their meeting the day before, she had seemed unruffled.

Vale still had extra security monitoring the crew and guest quarters. Satisfied Troi was safe, Riker had put off the visit. He'd check on her this evening. He was confident she had been feeling in a more sociable mood today – he could just tell.

He was feeling better too. For a second night his own sleep had been deep and restful.

The dreams were gone. He put them down to anxiety.

The ship's problems were much more important than his own personal issues. It was foolish to worry about an invisible bond and bad dreams when lives were threatened.

Thinking about it triggered a surge of anger through him. How dare someone attack Deanna and cause her so much anguish. Riker's fist clenched around the earring.

"Sudamen appears to check out," he said. "He's been at the institute for more than ten years.

"However, I also checked the  _Bounty's_  flight schedule. She left Volln'm and, after a brief stop at Miros V to collect additional cargo, she was supposedly on route to Ark11. Her previous five flight plans went nowhere near Caldos. If Sudamen is telling the truth, the Caldosan group was on Volln'm. What were they doing there?

"And why were they booked to travel on the  _Bounty_  originally? The  _Bounty_  is a freight ship, not a passenger ship."

Data nodded. "You are trying to connect the Dunedin Institute with the  _Bounty_  and the death of the man in the Jefferies tube?"

"The coincidences are starting to stack up, don't you think?"

Riker knew he was missing a piece of the puzzle, the key that would unlock the whole situation.

He squinted at the tiny piece of metal in his palm. _What else can you tell me?_

"Data, this comm unit ... you said it could've been privately made. What kind of technology did you say was used in it?"

"Actually, sir, I did not. Its technology is at least one hundred and fifty years old – certainly out-of-date by the standards of today but effective none-the-less. The barb itself is likely to be just as old."

Riker pinched the stud between his thumb and forefinger, marveling that such an innocuous thing could unsettle him.

It should have been someone's tacky family heirloom, not a cunning espionage device.

What place did it have in this investigation? It hadn't been used on board. Maybe it was just an heirloom - or a museum piece? Yet that didn't seem to fit with anything else the dead man left behind.

The earring wasn't giving up its secrets this day. Riker reluctantly set it back in a receptacle.

"Bring me up to speed on the  _Bounty_  situation, Data."

Data tapped keys on a padd and pulled up a list.

"The  _Bounty_  was transporting historical farming artifacts to Ark11. It had a crew of fifteen humanoids, working for a goodwill export business which leases the ship from its owner, a Terran."

"Where was the crew from?"

"Earth, Tcholm, Volln'm, Miros V and Andor."

Little could be gleaned from the personnel files. None of the crew were flagged for any kind of Federation misdemeanors. All were properly accredited for their respective trade positions. Several even had civilian Star Fleet commendations for activities during the Dominion War.

Reading the accompanying citations grounded Riker – reminding him fifteen more lives could have been mysteriously wiped out for no discernible reason.

Subdued, he asked Data to bring up the cargo list.

The information displayed itself before him. He scanned what seemed to be a list of pre-first contact farming equipment:

tractor, steam engine x2;  
tractor, diesel engine x1;  
tractor, solar/electric engine x1;  
tractor, wind/electric engine x1;  
eradicator, insect x2;  
eradicator, insect (Bfrt 20) x1;  
eradicator, parasite x2;  
harvester, combine x3;  
harvester, scythe x4;  
husbandry, kennel x4;  
chainsaw, diesel x2.

"The manifest includes provenance," Data said. "However, regulations on some planets are not as stringent as Terran standards."

He scrolled through the information, which included diagrams, pictures and charts.

Riker and Data studied the pictures, checking each item's components for possible tritium sources. It was another dead end.

"Who was set to receive these things?" Riker asked.

"The items were being transported on behalf of Solomon Kempt, a Terran representative. Actually, Commander, Mr Kempt is a member of Ark11's executive council. He has also been in charge of accessioning items for a rural technology museum on the planet."

"Fun," said Riker. "Are all these items from Earth, then?"

"I believe all the items can be traced back to various points of time in earth's history."

"You believe?"

"Some worlds don't require that information to be included in the provenance."

Riker sighed. "Let me guess ... one of those inconveniently sloppy planets is Volln'm?"

"Yes, sir."

The first officer glanced back at the screen which displayed a graphic of the last object on the list – a bulky, inelegant object called a chainsaw.

Out of curiosity he asked, "Do we have cargo information from the  _Fleur-de-lys_?"

"The captain only sent ..." the android paused, his features adopting a perplexed expression.

"What is it, Data?"

"Commander, Captain Kogaru transmitted the passenger list as per my request, but it appears datawaste was also attached to the message."

"Datawaste?"

"I believe the captain has somehow accidentally included diagnostic data from the  _Fleur-de-lys_ in the transmission."

"You've only just noticed?"

"It appeared to be junk data. My subroutines are programmed to search for patterns in datawaste.

Riker felt a rush of excitement. "This could be a lucky break."

"Please do not raise your hopes too high, sir. The information includes the cargo list, which appears very similar to the  _Bounty_. There is also information about environmental controls and recycling systems on the  _Fleur-de-lys_."

"Recycling, huh? I keep hearing that word lately."

It  _could_  be nothing. Then again, maybe there was more to it.

"I'll take it as a sign, Data," Riker said. "Just continue to let those subroutines process away. Let me know if you can pull anything else out of the junk."

Riker headed to the door. "Now might be a good time to have another casual word with Sudaman of Caldos."

"I do not understand the link."

"Intuition, Mr Data. Intuition. Now, where do you think I can find him at this time of day?"

"At the end of Alpha shift, in less than fifteen minutes, I am attending a workshop the anthropologist is conducting. Sudamen is never far from her, I have observed."

"Right you are then. I was going to sit this session out, but it looks like I'll have to make an exception."

* * *

The workshop was being held on deck 14.

As they moved through the ship, crew members flowed to and fro. People were smiling. Their conversations sounded cheerful. Riker could only marvel at the difference a day could make.

They trailed a lieutenant (off-duty) from stellar cartography doing a kind of head-nodding, finger-clicking shuffle, all the while crooning under his breath. He can't have been aware how his voice carried.

"Y _ou are the last drink I never should have drunk,_  
_you are the body hidden in the trunk,_  
you are the habit I can't seem to kick,  
you are my secrets on the front page every week,  
you are the car I never should have bought,  
you are the train I never should have caught ..."

When they passed him, Riker got a close look at the black muffs covering the man's ears. He thought they were a new fashion trend or some sort of hearing device, until he noticed a tiny metal object in the man's hands. He couldn't keep himself from turning back to look.

The officer caught Riker's eye. "Genuine twenty-second century Yong bix. Family heirloom."

"Bix?"

The lieutenant grinned. "Band-in-box."

After weeks of sullen looks and quiet seething, Riker found the mood shift unnerving. He and Data shared a turbolift with three ensigns lugging large upright cases. The ensigns backed into corners, hugging their cases tight to make room for the pair.

"Another chamber music concert coming up, Zarn?" Riker asked the ensign standing next to him.

"No, sir – the quintet's been asked to help out one of the Ark11 guests. We're getting along early to go over the music."

"This could be interesting," Riker said to Data once the musicians had eased themselves out onto deck 14. "She's resurrected the ship's usually defunct brass band, as well."

"You have also attended one of her workshops?"

"Sure, a few of us got together for an impromptu session yesterday. How did you get recruited?"

"Lieutenant Quiong in Science introduced me to Lark yesterday. She encouraged me to come. That I am an android seemed to fascinate her inordinately. She affixed one condition only to my attendance."

Riker snorted. "Oh yes ... the homework component. Were you able to complete the task?"

The anthropologist had explained her reasoning yesterday. Where possible she liked people to research what she called the wealth of Terran millennial music. Her task for beginners, as she called them, was to find and be prepared to present a song which illustrated some aspect of themselves.

She was generous in her timeframe – any old song would do. Her motivation on the ship was more about fostering enjoyment in any old period music, not strictly adhering to academic definitions.

Data paused. "I have not yet made up my mind. I have narrowed my options to two songs. Now I must decide which I prefer. It is not easy. There are aspects of both songs that I enjoy."

"How do you decide what you prefer?"

"Before the emotion chip was inserted I understood and appreciated music as mathematical formulae. However, I had no capacity for preference. I still understand music in its mathematical form, chordal progressions, tempo, melody are all factored into the equations, but now I find myself favoring some equations over others – with no clear reason for doing so."

"Watch out, Data. That sounds almost human to me."

"But now I am in a quandary ... I like two songs equally and have no way to discern between either."

"Data, it's not an exam. You can't get the answer wrong. I'd tell you to flip a coin if I had one. Tell you what, assign your first choice as song A and your second as song Z. Okay?" Riker looked to Data for confirmation.

"If the doors of the turbolift on the right open next choose song A. If the left ones open first then it's song Z."

"You mean leave my decision to chance?" Data made a serious face. "Okay, I will try it your way."

After a full thirty seconds Riker wished he had come up with a quicker method of solving the dilemma. The android, however, had committed to the task. Eventually the doors of the turbolift on the right opened.

"Song A it is," Data said, satisfied.

Several more crew members carting guitar-shaped cases exited. Riker stepped in after them, but held the door open to ask Data one more question.

"Out of curiosity's sake, what songs did you get down to?" He wondered what Data would choose for self-representation. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"Lark was insistent we not reveal our songs to anyone."

"I don't remember her saying-"

"Have you decided not to come, Commander?" Data asked innocently.

Riker had something he knew he needed to do.

"I'll be there," he said. "Just a bit late – I can't come without my own instrument, now can I? Otherwise I might be expected to sing ..."

* * *

Riker detoured on his way to his quarters to Ten Forward. He knew Troi would be there. He'd given her space; now he had to give her support.

And perhaps he could persuade her to join him. He had an ulterior motive. Sudamen would be at the workshop - he was never far from Lark. Perhaps Troi might get more from the man if she saw him again.

The ship would arrive at Ark11 in less than twenty-four hours. It was imperative they get as much information out of him before he disembarked.

When Riker arrived at the ship's most popular off-duty destination, he was surprised to discover the doctor, but no Troi.

Crusher waved him over cheerfully. When he neared her she got a glimpse of his chagrin.

"You just missed her." She pointed to a half-melted ice cream concoction in a bowl.

Riker scratched his head. "I could have sworn ..."

"Your instincts are fine. It's your timing that's off. She got called away about a minute ago. A crew member in engineering just received some bad news from home, I think."

Riker digested what Crusher said. Ensign Blake's news concerned him and he made a mental note to personally approach her tomorrow after the counselor had briefed him on the situation, but he couldn't disguise a far more pressing concern.

"How's Troi doing?"

Beverly fixed an unblinking gaze on him, letting her eyebrows emphasize her clinical amusement.

"As her doctor I'm not telling you and you should know better. As her friend, I'd say nowhere near as badly as she could have been."

"Any sign of the empathy, you know, returning?"

"Still nothing. She's striving too hard to remember why she was on that deck the other night. I think she's taking the memory loss quite hard. I've noticed Betazoids tend to take head injuries as the ultimate form of cosmic insult. At least it's giving her something to brood on other than the other thing ..."

"Did she give any indication how long she was likely to be with Ensign Blake tonight?"

"No, but she pretty much resigned herself to the loss of the dessert. D'you want it?" Crusher pushed the bowl Riker's way.

He took in the slushy remains.

"Look, Beverly, I was hoping to talk to her tonight, but if she's gonna be a while – well, I might as well go back to the workshop. Why don't you come along? See what all the fuss is about?"

The doctor needed little persuading. Gossip traveled quickly on board. She was keen to meet the woman who had apparently managed to turn the first officer's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Scientist, by Coldplay  
> Like a Friend, by Pulp


	8. White Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was just an excuse to make Data sing.

**White Flag**

Dessert – amazingly – was right where she had left it. Only now it was a mottled brown, goopy soup. Not the scrumptious pyramid of chocolate drizzled ice cream she had ordered an hour ago. It took Deanna Troi several seconds to decide if the dish still looked appealing.

"At what point did it lose its power to captivate me," she lamented, hands on hips, as a harried waiter approached.

"Alas," the waiter said, peering down at the bowl. "Brought forth in spirit of anticipation, destined only to join the leftover meatloaf and X'tulian stew in the ship's regurgita ... oops, I mean recycler ... that is."

He threw her a swift and cheeky grin. "Unless you had other plans for a more fitting disposal-"

He broke off when he saw her glare. Plenty of people had peculiar food foibles – it confused Troi why hers in particular should be singled out for ship wide amusement.

"I'll just leave you to it then, Counselor," the young waiter said, backing away. "We're a few hands short tonight, anyway – I should probably be getting back ..."

Troi did a double take. But for waiter, herself and two Andoran officers, Ten Forward  _was_  empty. If all her senses had been available to her, she would have immediately registered it. Numbed, she had to draw on her simpler abilities. The room was  _unusually_ empty. There were signs, however, the place had been occupied – used glasses and plates on tables throughout the room lay waiting for collection.

"Where did everyone go?" The Andorans were bent over their glasses deep in conversation. One nodded slightly as she caught his eye before returning his attention to his companion. She guessed the topic of the conversation to be something serious, relying on their stiff postures and somber expressions to form her judgment.

"Don't you know?" the waiter answered. "Just about everyone on board – including half our staff - has gone mad about some traveling earth history specialist. She's giving a lecture or something tonight."

"You didn't want to go?"

"Heck, no," he replied. "I spent years trying to avoid history classes at school – I'm not gonna willingly subject myself to further torture."

Troi smothered a smile, resisting a comment about youth – and – there it was: sense. His light heart, his stubbornness, his need to be liked and accepted. She knew what the young man was feeling. The realization unsteadied her, and she put a hand out for balance.

The waiter didn't notice. He was already turning to leave. A flood of adrenaline coursed through her body. Her heart racing, she backed into a chair. She wanted to scream for joy, relief, and several days of pent up stress.

But her elation was short lived.

She closed her eyes to focus on the feelings of the officers on the other side of the room – and found herself in the same black space she'd been in since the attack in the corridor. She felt nothing – as though she was sitting alone in a cold, dank and lightless room.

Determined to focus on the positives, she forced herself to sit still, re-assessing what she thought had just happened.

She and the waiter had been talking, and then suddenly, the connection had opened.  _Did talking trigger it_ , she wondered.

The waiter had disappeared behind a counter. She tried to find him in her mind. With a little mental pushing - her forehead dampened at the exertion – she found a faint tingle of youthful emotion. He was there – a tiny pinprick of light in the dark space.

The Andorans were still blank to her. She considered interrupting their conversation, but the intent on their faces hadn't changed and she concluded they wouldn't appreciate the intrusion. Instead, she concentrated on her one beacon of hope – the flickering sense of the waiter as he went about his duties.

As she sat, half-remembered images started to stir in her mind. She knew the memories were there – like tiny fish darting just below the surface of a pond. Almost visible if one knew where to look, but then moving too quickly for the eye to catch. She willed them to still and rise closer to the surface.

A voice startled her out of the trance.

She turned in the direction of Captain Picard, keeping the frustration from her features. She could see him, she could hear him, but she had had no sense of him.

"Counselor?" Picard asked again.

"Captain," she acknowledged, indicating he should pull up a chair if he wished.

He smiled as he did so. With a casual glance about the room, he said, "Looks like I picked the wrong night to do a little socializing."

"You're welcome to join my party," Troi replied.

"What are we celebrating?"

She weighed up whether to tell him, then decided it couldn't hurt.

"For the briefest of seconds I felt like my old self just a moment or two ago."

Her grip tightened as she waited to feel anything from her captain. Surely, if her sense was returning a friend's feelings should be easily picked up.

He must have seen the disappointment in her face.

"Beverly is confident things will be back to normal in a matter of days, Deanna. What gave you the impression you were on the road to recovery?"

She laughed. "I know it'll come back, Captain. Will was never gone, at least. My sense is just being selective. Moments ago I was talking to a waiter and, suddenly, there it was – his emotions. I can still sense him – he's feeling quite pleased with himself tonight – but for all  _I_  feel, other than Will, he might be the only person in the universe. I did wonder if talking might trigger the ability, but since I've been talking to you nothing seems to be happening. It's odd."

Picard leaned back. "I can only imagine how frustrated you must feel."

"Even more so, now that I know it's nearly back," she admitted. "You know, before you came in, I felt I was on the verge of remembering a bit more about the attack – or at least why I was where I was."

"Oh?"

"Alas," she said, with mock tragedy. "Whatever was verging has retreated. Perhaps all it needs is more sleep."

"Would you settle for the comforting presence of an old friend who can finally resurface after completing the rough copy of his eagerly anticipated speech on prehistoric Metexilan agricultural and hunting techniques?"

"Always," she said. "If I didn't know better, I'd say my other so-called old friends had abandoned me."

Picard glanced around the nearly empty room.

"Counselor, is something going on I don't know about?"

She grinned. "If I tell you, you won't ditch me?"

"I make no promises."

"One of our guests has made an impression on the crew. I thought Beverly was free of it, but I suspect even she's succumbed."

Picard still looked confused.

"A sudden craze for Terran millennial music has swept the  _Enterprise_ , Captain," she said.

"A certain Caldosan musical specialist is, as we speak, no doubt introducing a new generation to the wonders of-" Here she stumbled. "Actually, I don't know much about the specifics of music from that era – but you can understand what I mean."

"And all the crew are interested?"

"Most of the Terrans, at least," she said. "I don't know what she does – some kind of hybrid lecture-workshop thing - but apparently it involves audience participation."

The captain paused to consider the explanation.

"Well, if it's alright with you, Counselor – provided you have no plans to expand your repertoire of gangster hip-hop – I'll stay right here for as long as you want the company of a friend."

She laughed. "Gangster what?"

* * *

Riker's assumption about the Caldosan group leader was on the mark. He spotted the man already seated close to the front of the auditorium moments after he and Dr Crusher entered.

The theater was filling quickly and Sudamen was surrounded.

There was no chance to sit near him. Finding  _any_  free seat would be difficult, Riker realized ruefully as Beverly pulled him to the back of the auditorium.

A bright and catchy song about "poor old Johnny Ray" sounding "sad upon the radio" set the mood. The room hummed with expectation.

The popularity of the event amused Riker. Crazes were not unheard of on starships – in fact, it was normal for ships to experience them. Health practitioners argued they provided vital stimulation - within reason.

It was the speed of this one which was breathtaking.

 _Who could have predicted this_ , he wondered.

In the crew of the  _Enterprise,_  Lark had found a perfect audience.

The music spoke of turbulent years and strong emotions. There was something for everyone, and it transcended time. It was the perfect outlet for the powerful feelings the  _Enterprise's_  crew had been hiding under a rigid veneer of discipline and regiment.

Somehow Lark had tapped into a source, which being old, was actually new to many of the crew now encountering it.

Riker had considered himself intrigued but immune to its intoxication. He had rated his knowledge of twentieth and twenty-first century music, and he was a fair musician with more than a passing interest in early jazz masters. But Lark's effective lecturing blasted that belief away.

And he had to admit, her passion for the subject was infectious.

He looked around again. Some of those in the room had brought instruments and were talking with Lark at the front of the auditorium. He stowed his trombone next to his chair. He loved any chance to play, but his principle reason for coming tonight was to talk to Sudamen.

The Caldosan sat with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, but a grin sent Lark's way suggested his posture was an act.

Riker wondered what to make of Sudamen's gruff exterior. He was always polite in conversation - even jocular - but sometimes his appearance seemed to discourage intrusion.

Not for the first time, Riker wished Troi was here.

 _No use wishing for what you can't have_ , he reminded himself.

"Quite the gathering, isn't it?" murmured Doctor Crusher.

The background music softened and Lark took to a small podium.

"It's really exciting to see so many people here tonight," Lark said. "I'm always warned people don't want to hear about the millennial age. That it's just not cool enough. Or sophisticated enough."

People in the row in front of Riker were nodding. Her conversational style was easy to listen to. It belied the control she was exerting over the evening.

Lark, Riker realized, posed some enigmatic quandaries of her own. Shy with some people; supremely posed in front of an audience.

"My own mother was horrified when I dropped my classical retorque studies in favor of the millennium. She told me not to come home. She relented - as good people do. Her reaction was the knee-jerk response parents have when they're worried their kids are about to do something really, really stupid."

Riker had an inkling where Lark was directing the topic.

"My mother tried hard to understand me, so I tried to help her understand what I liked about the millennial age. I guess I was lucky - she was a reluctant student, but she was a good one. I challenged her to learn one song. Learn one song, mother, I said. To my surprise, she did. A song I'd never even heard before by an artist I'd never heard of. A beautiful song called  _The Ocean_. She was so chuffed she'd found a song she liked - and it was one I didn't know."

If any of Lark's audience recognized the song title, they gave nothing away.

"She never told anyone what she was doing. As I said, no one likes hearing about music from the millennium period. But one evening we had guests over. I guess they weren't keen on my field of study, and they let me know it. I wasn't worried - you get used to it. But my mother got wilder and wilder as the evening went on, insulted on my behalf. At last she could take it no more; she got out her violin and asked me to play guitar along with her. And that's when it happened. Out of nowhere this glorious fiddle began to soar. I saw a look on her face and I knew something in my mother had changed. She never questioned my choice again - and our guests spent the rest of the evening asking how they could experience more.

"That's when I became interested in teaching the topic. Now, there's a wealth of songs to be rediscovered, unearthed, dusted off and played again."

Lark grinned.

"How about that task, hey? Anyone have any trouble with that one?"

A few hands halfheartedly rose and more than a few muttered murmurings traveled the room.

Lark spent the next half hour going over some of the songs suggested. She talked about the instruments used in studio recordings verses live sounds, about the musicians, their lives, their views; politics was considered, the general success of the song commercially, the song's saturation in society, whether it left an indelible mark on a culture's psyche or had only localized success.

She talked about jingles, movies, anime, elevator music. Obvious influences on songs; how certain songs in turn influenced other artists. On a large screen behind her, she played samples to illustrate her point.

At all stages she invited people to ask questions. Eventually she called a short break; then she divided them into groups and sent them in various directions. The conference theater had a series of smaller chambers along the sides and front.

"Welcome. Thanks for coming," Lark said when Riker introduced her to Crusher. "I must admit – the number of people here is gratifying."

She looked Sudamen's way. "Sud primed me to believe the busy crew of a Starfleet vessel would have better things to do than talk about ancient music. He's a bit miffed really – such a snob."

"Oh?" said the doctor.

"Yeah. He thinks large crowds lead to a lower standard of music."

Crusher raised an eyebrow.

"He's a bit of a purist, actually," Lark confided. "He's not that fond of people tinkering with music he knows and likes."

The doctor's expression grew dark.

"Oh, don't worry. He acts all grouchy, but really he enjoys it ... there's just something about a live performance – however good or bad."

"So how does this work?" Crusher asked.

"Well, the good thing is, everyone gets to do something ... but nothing more than they can handle or want," Lark said. "No Christina Aguilera solos, I promise."

"Can't I just, well, just spectate?" Beverly asked.

"I wouldn't want you to feel left out. But I promise, it won't be anything too demanding and definitely not painful ... I hope."

She ended up pointing the doctor to a door where a group of nervous junior officers were congregating.

"Actually, you can go with her too, Commander," Lark said after a moment's thought. "And don't forget your trombone."

Riker reached for the instrument and saw her shifting on her feet.

"I'm fairly confident you'll hate what I've got lined up for you ... but never mind ... it won't hurt."

She waved him off before he could ask what she meant.

A quick look back told him Sudamen was still seated – apparently the only exception to Lark's participation rule. There would be time to have a casual word with the man before the evening was finished. Riker told himself not to worry.

The previous session he had attended had been much smaller; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect. He stepped through the door and found a young ensign arranging the people inside. Riker took his place with a euphonium player and a trumpeter. They eyed each other.

Lark's hands-on approach set nervous newcomers at ease. She moved around the groups with practiced efficiency.

Riker's group was working on a song chosen by Ensign Smith. The first officer had no idea where or what Data was doing.

Lark had been right about one thing. Riker grimaced as he studied the music she had assigned him – a rather cheesy brass chorus in a song about babies not crying. Sure, it was crass, but Ensign Smith, who wasn't a proficient singer, was having fun with it anyway.

The musicians had no problems with the music.

Buoyed by their backing group, the singers (led by Smith) settled, proving they were there to enjoy themselves – and damned be anyone who might crush that spirit.

Plenty of inhibitions had been discarded when the singers let rip on their final practice, Riker mused.

" _Baby don't cry"_ repeated ad infinitum wasn't the deepest lyric he could think of, but the way it was sung gave it a sort of energetic pathos.

Even the brass backing, giving it an (undeservedly) epic feeling, wasn't so bad when heard in context. And for all the singers' protestations, the tune was not completely lost in their rendition.

When they came to performing it, it was hard not to get caught up in the fun. Riker was - well - proud of the crew. He knew this sort of spontaneity only happened because they were willing it to happen. The tide truly was turning on weeks of corrosive cynicism.

Theirs was the crowd-pleasing opener and while certainly not perfect, it was delivered with unrestrained gusto. The chorus turned out to be so catchy (and repetitive), and Ensign Smith excited enough to challenge their listeners, they had no trouble persuading the audience to join in.

Lark radiated whenever she stepped back on stage to talk to the audience. During the performance she had sat next to Sudamen taking no part in the proceedings, but she held nothing back from her praise.

Through the hour they were treated to a range of music which at times seemed to plumb new depths of millennial bizarreness.

Ensigns Sakiko Hasuda and Sachiko Hasuda (no relation) performed a strangely eerie piece (impossibly) about chicken bones, Sakiko making use of two short keyboards, Sachiko dwarfed by a bass nearly as large as she was and which provided most of the rhythm. They had roped in a medic percussionist, and together they crooned in scarily childlike voices - the odd lyrics contrasting with the melody and harmonies they put to it.

Lark watched in a kind of horrified shock – Riker wondered if the women were playing some sort of musical joke, but before the piece had finished Lark was on her feet leading the clapping.

The audience may not have known what to make of the song, but the musicianship was undeniably worth admiration.

"Officially, ladies," Lark exclaimed, "that was the creepiest thing I've heard in forever. I loved it!"

She went on to explain the song's place in anime history and allowed the talk to digress into a discussion about strange lyrics (there was plenty of millennial fodder for this exercise). They brainstormed said strange lyrics for five minutes – Lark asking for contemporary examples and matching them with millennial oddities.

"Of course, some of what's strange to us would have been perfectly normal in millennial times," she said, by way of wrapping that topic up. "Although  _Mr Zebra_  – as perversely understandable you may be able to convince yourself it is while listening – really, at the end of the day is a very strange song ... even by millennial standards."

Riker could only agree.  _Ratatouille Strychnine – definitely not a friend of mine_ , he thought with a shudder.

Beverly nudged him. "Data's up."

On the stage the android was assembling his musicians. When he had them just so, he turned to address the room.

"After some discussion and reflection I have decided against presenting my initial song choice ..."

Lark – perhaps a little rudely – broke in.

"I have to admit I'm still not convinced the song initially chosen by Mr Data is entirely appropriate. It's just ... you have to wonder at the wisdom of singing about going down with a ship ... when you're on one."

She looked apologetically at Data.

"Understandable, doctor," he placated her. "I have prepared another song which could be more pleasing than  _White Flag_. You are familiar, I am sure, with the song  _Stars Like a River._ Singer David Auden died by his-"

"Disappeared," Lark interjected for a second time.

For the first time Riker could remember the woman looking less than happy.

"If that is a euphemistic way of saying he killed himself, then yes – he disappeared," Data replied.

Lark's expression twisted subtly. Riker would have said she now appeared puzzled. He had seen almost the exact expression on another face recently – Troi struggling to remember the events that had led her to the point of her attack the other night.

A rumbling cough from the seats prevented Lark from replying.

"Oh. Well. That's a bit morose, isn't it," Sudamen said, moving forward from his seat. He had clapped politely at the end of each act but this was the first time he'd spoken. "No, no. We can't have the pall of suicide hanging over us tonight. Let's have only happy music ... I insist. How about that duet you prepared for Mr Data? I seem to remember you rubbing your hands in anticipation at that one this morning, Lark."

Lark's face flowed from blank confusion to acquiescence. If she was about to say more about the subject, she had changed her mind.

"Okay."

She gave a little shake on her head and turned to a couple of the musicians who had shown particular aptitude for millennial rock.

"How 'bout it? A little  _Whole of the Moon_? - You had a quick practice, didn't you? Think you could handle that, guys, Data?"

She barely waited for a nod from the android or musicians before signaling the song's beginning notes.

"This should speak for itself, I think," she said, glancing at Data over the opening chords. "Mr Data this morning assured me he would humor me with a duet at some point ... I thought of this song almost as soon as I met him."

" _I pictured a rainbow"  
_ " _You held it in your hands."_

Lark and Data passed the lines between each other – creating an unbelievable musical comedy. One everyone could appreciate.

" _I had flashes-"  
_ " _You saw the plans."  
_ " _I wandered out in the world for years, while you just stayed in your room."  
_ " _I saw the crescent,"_

They shared a line:  _"You saw the whole of the moon."_

It brought the house down.

 _What does Data make of it, I wonder,_ Riker wondered _._ Would he understand the irony of the song reflected on his own being?

Between human and android, which of them really saw the whole of the moon?

The performance earned a rowdy ovation. Even the gloomy Sudamen was roused enough to applaud. Lark threw her arms around the ship's second officer as the music drew to close. When she released him (Data seemed to be having trouble knowing where to look), she spoke loudly.

"Data, it's possible I've waited the whole of my life for just the right person to sing that with me."

"The pleasure was all mine," he replied.

The lesson ... session ... finished on a high note when a cryptobiology expert organized both her workshop group and the audience to sing along to the chorus of  _We will Rock You_ followed quickly by  _We are the Champions_.

No one seemed to find either song distasteful or offensive – and yet the brazen content of the lyrics could almost be said to epitomize the worst characteristics of the era.

Instead, put into context, the strutting cockiness of the first song and the lofty bombastry of the second suddenly made more sense.

The hours he had recently spent dissecting Y2K and its culture had softened Riker's stance on the music of that age.

There was food for thought, he decided, and a subtlety in melody previously he had not been willing to concede.

It would take, however, vast quantities of genuine alcohol poured down his throat before he would be ready to join with the raucous crowd stamping their feet and singing " _we will, we will rock you_ " as they exited the theater and made for whatever destination on the ship they had in mind.

He was happy some of the crew didn't seem to have any qualms, though.

With the evening at a close, some were already leaving while others were milling around chatting. Riker stood up, scanning the room on the look out for his prey. He had turned to take in the entire room twice before he realized the truth.

"Damn."

Crusher stood up next him. "He's gone?"

"Yes."

Sudamen was nowhere to be seen. Lark was talking to a group of baby-faced ensigns, but her minder had obviously left.

Riker considered tracking the Caldosan down, but hesitated.

After a second's indecision he decided it could wait. Somehow several hours of good company, good [translation: different] music and fascinating conversation had removed the sense of urgency he had felt before the evening.

 _Music might just about be the closest thing to magic_ , he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, Eileen, by Dexys Midnight Runners  
> Baby Don't Cry, by INXS  
> Chicken Bone, by Cowboy Bebop OST  
> Mr Zebra, by Tori Amos  
> The Whole of the Moon, by the Waterboys  
> We will Rock You, by Queen


	9. Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troi's empathy returns ... and someone on the ship is screaming for help.

**Hunter**

Troi woke groggy from nine hours of uninterrupted sleep.

As she leaned against the wall in the sonic shower with her eyes shut, she dreamed of nine more hours of uninterrupted sleep.

She slowly drew on her uniform, hoping the lethargy wouldn't develop into something more unpleasant. She had wanted sleep – had been certain yesterday one more night would cure her - return her sense and memories.

Now, here she was: awake, but with her head feeling too heavy for her to register anything. Not even disappointment. But she did know one thing. Behind the fog seeping into her brain, something black and brooding waited. And as bad as things seemed now, she had a premonition they were going to get worse. And maybe it would be better to stay in the shelter of the fog.

She awoke with a gasp.

* * *

"I don't know about you, doctor, but when I get shore time I'm gonna check out the Comparative Industrial Technologies Park. Word is the detail gone into the warp core section is phenomenal – every Federation planet's journey to warp speed laid out in a display the size of three  _Enterprises_."

Troi caught the end of LaForge's comment to Beverly Crusher when she met them heading to the ready room. She marveled that the chief engineer could think of shore leave when so many questions still needed answers. She kept the thought to herself though and replied brightly when Crusher, on seeing her, asked what she planned to do during  _her_  shore leave.

"I don't know - I haven't given it much consideration," she replied. With so much going on, who would have time for more than a basic exploration of the planet?

"I've heard some of the textile exhibitions are unbelievable," Crusher said. "I've always wanted to see how Cheltan silk is prepared. Apparently, the spiderworms have been bred in captivity off-planet for the first time ever. Want to come with me to see them?"

"Ah, sure," Deanna said, concealing her surprise as she side-stepped an inattentive crewman.

The  _Enterprise_  was six hours from reaching Ark11, and Captain Picard had called a meeting to reassess their progress. Geordi and Beverly's lack of urgency threw her. With an unsolved murder - and whatever else was happening on board - she had expected the engineer and the doctor to show more interest in the subject. The captain was unlikely to sanction any senior staff shore leave while so much remained unexplained.

"Are you okay, Deanna?" Beverly's hawk-like eyes watched as Troi put a hand to her temple.

The counselor waved off her concern.

"Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. In fact, if the captain okays any rest and relaxation today, the only place I'm headed is back to bed."

"You don't want a medical opinion?"

"I just had a bad night's sleep is all. I'll live."

"You can't ask for a better prognosis," LaForge joked.

Beverly grinned. "Let me know if you change your mind."

They reached the ready room just as Riker turned into the corridor from the opposite direction. LaForge and Crusher entered, but when Deanna started to follow them, Riker halted her.

"How are you?"

His feelings revealed his question's deeper intent. Water never quenched a throat more than the way his concern satisfied and touched her.

A look told Troi the ready room hadn't filled – Data and Christine were yet to arrive. She studied Riker. Their connection infused her with comfort and relieved some of the unease she had been feeling all morning – but she certainly didn't feel obligated to fill him on every little detail of her life. He was looking at her expectantly.

"I'm fine, Will."

"But your empathy?" She was pleased he wasn't treating her or the subject like some delicate flower; wasn't afraid of approaching it head on.

She rewarded him with a straightforward response. "Almost back, I think."

Riker gave her one of his patented boyish smiles.

"Thank goodness. I've kind of missed you not knowing and interpreting my every whim."

His mood didn't tally with his smile. His loneliness swamped her – that and, of course, he was lying – but about what she couldn't discern. Perhaps lying was too strong a word ... but he was definitely concealing something.

 _Maybe I'm losing my edge_ , she thought.

She wondered if the whole staff was acting bizarrely today. Did Riker think her empathy loss extended to himself? That she couldn't feel him? Did he not know? Had no one told him this wasn't true? That in her cold, bleak world of detachment, he was her one warmth?

Captain Picard had been the one to inform the senior staff about her disability. Will must have assumed it included him. He should have been able to tell that wasn't true. Shouldn't he have instinctively known? What in hell was happening to them?

They may have had their share of ups and downs, but a lack of communication had never been one of them. Why had he not been able to feel her? She was glad he couldn't see her face as she passed ahead of him into the room. If she had been confused before, now she was disorientated – spun from her own orbit.

But now was not the time to discuss the matter further – Data and Vale were just behind them and she could see Picard at the conference desk looking twitchy. He was eager to proceed, but even he appeared more settled than she had been expecting.

It didn't take her long to learn why. It was the first thing on the agenda – and it cleared her confusion. When Data had taken his seat – the last of them to do so – Picard started.

"For those of you who haven't heard, Mr Data has furnished us with a likely explanation for some of our recent occurrences. Mr Data?"

The senior staff turned to the android officer.

Data didn't prolong the suspense.

"I believe I can provide evidence that the person or people responsible for the death of the man who attacked counselor Troi never boarded to the  _Enterprise."_

That lightened the mood of the room.

It made sense, but it would be good to know for certain. There was no comfort thinking the ship's security had been breached.

"Using junk data included in a transmission from the _Fleur-de-lys_ , I was able to analyse the ship's environmental and life support controls. Passenger and crew lists indicate no one officially boarded or disembarked from the ship twenty hours prior to rendezvous with the  _Enterprise_.

Data indicated figures on a chart on the viewer.

"However, you will note _before_  Sem boarded the  _Enterprise,_ there was a six-hour period when carbon dioxide levels on the  _Fleur-de-lys_  were elevated, with no corresponding variable changes in the environmental controls of the ship."

It was basic science – so elemental most people probably would have missed it – or never bothered to look. This story involved a stowaway – but not aboard the  _Enterprise_. Data was proposing that someone had slipped on board the small ship.

"Was the ship in orbit at that point?" Dr Crusher asked.

"No," replied Data. "The  _Fleur-de-lys_  was already in transit, on its way to Starbase 313 to rendezvous with the  _Enterprise_."

"Could she have encountered another ship during that period?" LaForge queried.

"Not according to Captain Kogaru. The information she supplied us confirms this. However, security systems on the  _Fleur-de-lys_  are not as robust nor as sophisticated as a Federation vessel. Hence, the ship is grounded at Starbase 313 while the moratorium on inadequately shielded vessels is in place. Captain Kogaru accepts a breach likely occured – but she has not be able to identify if or when data was tampered with to conceal the breach."

Vale frowned. "So you're suggesting a stowaway boarded the  _Fleur-de-lys,_  rigged Sem up with the poison patch, and then left undetected? And that's a reasonable explanation?" She didn't look convinced. "How do we explain where Sem's body was found?"

Dr Crusher took over from Data. "It will help you to know, Christine, that old fashioned though it is, this method of homicide isn't unique."

She looked around the faces at the table. "I've learned just this morning that snake patches used to be a popular way of dispatching organized crime associates – those who have usually been branded traitors, in fact. The variety of venom was considered a calling card. Anyone eager to venture a few guesses as to where this charming practice arose?"

Vale looked disgusted. "Let me go out on a limb - Volln'm?"

Dr Crusher nodded. "The poison was a neurotoxin which worked on Sem's central nervous system. Perhaps he knew something was wrong, panicked and climbed into the Jefferies tube to hide himself. He would have started to convulse. The paroxysms would have caused him to thrash around. He might have jammed himself quite successfully down the tube, without a helping hand."

Troi had flashes of shadows and pain – half-remembered feelings from the man's dying minutes. He had attacked her - she had no doubts about that - but she struggled to make sense of his lack of malice. She blinked when she realized Data had taken over again from the doctor.

"Despite careful examination, no trace of a third person was ever found at the scene. It is the simplest explanation."

The doubtful expression on Vale's face didn't abated. "But is it enough for us to step down our security?"

"It's enough to shift the investigation back to the  _Fleur-de-lys_  for the time-being," Picard said, forestalling her opposition. "And it means we can let our passengers go without unnecessary delay. Granted, we still have little information about the impostor Festa Sem, but if the fatal blow, as it were, was delivered on a private trading vessel, investigation into his death no longer falls within our jurisdiction. It will be up to the Federation Security force to oversee the rest of it."

Riker had been unusually quiet during the meeting. He chose now to speak, indigation racking his voice.

"An attack on one of our staff must still be investigated, surely?" Around the table the others nodded. The criminal act that led to Sem's death may not have happened on their ship, but Troi had been struck down in a corridor on the  _Enterprise_.

Picard looked troubled. "And it won't be forgotten, Number One. But until we have something solid to go on – who Sem was, who he was working for, who his associates were – we can't take the matter forward. These are questions the security force is in a better position to look into. Data will act as a liaison with the chief investigator, who officially takes over the case when we reach Ark11 orbit."

Picard looked at Troi. "Counselor, no doubt the security force will want to interview to you about the attack as soon as possible."

"Aye, Captain."

The was no trace of tension on her face, but she had to strain to maintain her concentration.

As the meeting wore on she had become increasingly aware of a buzzing centered in the back of her head. She failed to pin down the source; it was like a mosquito zizzing just beyond her vision, but she knew the noise was in her mind. And it was distracting. She gripped the arms on her chair to prevent herself squirming in discomfort.

Picard continued, oblivious. With the most pressing issue dealt to, he ran through the progress (or lack of it) on other matters.  _The Bounty_  was still missing, and no more had been ascertained about a possible nuclear explosion destroying a ship in this sector of the galaxy. Since, again, neither strictly fell within the _Enterprise's_  jurisdiction, they were not regarded as immediate priorities.

If Picard suspected there was a link between the two incidents, he kept it to himself. For the time being their primary goal was to get their guests safely to Ark11. Once that mission had been completed, it was probable they would be routed to take a closer look into the peculiar space debris.

In the meantime, discussion was directed to shore leave.

Now that the investigation out of their hands, the crew was free to experience the planet's opening celebrations for themselves. A week ago that news would have had bad reception from the majority of the lower deck crew. Not so any longer. Troi was too tired to smile at the thought now; that a crew - the  _whole_  crew of a large star ship – did not want leave wasn't the norm on a Starfleet ship. But somehow, in the space of a week, something had happened to turn that feeling about – sadly, without her benefiting emotionally from it, she mused.

Schedules for shore leave were quickly mapped out.

Even with time taken up talking to Federation Security, Troi could see even she was not going to have any excuse for not exploring Ark11. The ship was scheduled to be in orbit around the planet for several weeks.

Later, during a spare fifteen minutes in her office, she tried to get enthusiastic about the planet and its cultural extravaganza. There was plenty going on – one extended month of opening celebrations; plenty to attend and do – but she had trouble summoning the energy to care or get excited.

It all came back to the dream.

The others might have been satisfied with Data's stowaway theory, but Troi doubted it was the end of the  _Enterprise's_  involvement.

After several minutes of pointless staring at the wall in front of her, she groaned. It was just so frustrating. By 'it' she meant everything.

Riker acting idiotic, time and circumstance preventing them from having that discussion she  _thought_  she wanted, her sensory blindness, her lost memories, the stupid buzzing in her ears, stupid dead men dying and leaving their stupid dead mysteries behind them.

And underpinning it all was a horrible, mushrooming feeling of ... despair? Anguish?

But whose?

Had she been herself, she would have employed a structuring technique to examine and understand better her situation. Today, when she thought about the problem, all she seemed able to do was wallow – just as she had for the last three days.

Dealing with other people's problems hadn't been difficult, but when it came to affairs of her own soul: inertia.

If only she could work out what she wanted to do – about any of it. If only she could think straight for more than five minutes.  _If only_ , she thought, sighing.

* * *

Her mental storm broke towards the end of the day – but it brought no relief to the counselor. She had known it wouldn't.

The dull, brooding sense and the annoying buzz she had been experiencing all day shattered at the end of a session with an ensign assigned to the ship's security staff.

Ensign White had been responsive throughout the hour, but as her appointment with Troi was coming to an end, Troi noticed oddities in her behavior. She looked attentive, but her foot was tapping. Every so often she would glance at the door, and her answers to Troi's questions became shorter and more agreeable.

"Talking to Haj about my concerns is definitely the best thing I could do, Counselor. I've been avoiding the whole issue – deliberately ... I can see that now. I can also see nothing's going to change unless I choose to make it change. I'm going to get right onto it ..."

Troi, at standing at the replicator, had her back to Ensign White. The ensign didn't see the look of shock on Troi's face.

"If that's the way you feel, Mary, then I won't keep you from it. The sooner you clear the air with him, the happier you'll both be."

Ensign White stood, relieved at her dismissal. She wasted no time, bounding to the door. Only when she reached it did she look back to thank Troi.

"Are you okay?"

Troi gave her a paper-thin smile.

"I'm fine, Mary. Nothing to keep you from talking to Haj."

Troi felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Not her guilt.

Mary did intend on talking to Haj - but that wasn't the reason she was so keen to leave Troi's office right now. She was excited to be heading somewhere. That much Troi could tell.

Alone at last Troi fell back in her chair.

Her empathy was back – and so were her memories. She clutched her stomach. Instead of release, sickness overwhelmed her.

There  _was_  a problem on board – some kind of wound, festering and septic; a stealthy character hiding in shadows and creeping through the bowels of the ship unimpeded, guarding a secret.

Something terrible had happened to someone on board the  _Enterprise_  – something that couldn't be seen in the open, something hidden and secret.

Troi scoffed at herself. What problems weren't hidden behind layers of self-deception and denial?

But  _this_  problem ... it wasn't that it was worse than anything else she'd ever experienced. It wasn't a presence of evil or of fear – it was just  _so_  loud.

The loudness was what got her up three nights ago. She had tried to go to bed early - she couldn't shake the residue of Riker's malaise during their conversation about transfer requests. Twisting in her sheets, the fitful moments she had slept had been filled with erotic images of Will and herself. Over and over in the dreams she would end up reeling away from him, a nightmare as Dream Will dissolved into a husk – a Nightmare Will - and Troi felt lonely.

Then she had woken and heard it - a cry for help.

She hadn't been able to pinpoint it.

In a daze, she had rolled from bed, pulled on her evening gown, and headed from her quarters. At the back of her mind she had feared the problem – as she now referred to it – and Riker were one and the same.

The imposter Sem had ended that search when he stunned her with a blow to her head.

She would do things differently today. She would be more careful. This time she would hunt down the intruder; root out this ill feeling which smothered her and made her head an unpleasant place to be.

She stood for seconds in the corridor outside the counseling suite, trying to orient herself to the source of the ship's noisiest mental breakdown.

When she set off there was purpose - determination - in her stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunter, by Bjork


	10. Fake Plastic Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because who hasn't dreamed of seeing Radiohead songs performed in Ten Forward?

**Fake Plastic Trees**

Ten Forward was bustling. Celebration was in the air. The ship was now in orbit around Ark11.

The party had burst in a carnival. (Riker allowed the tumblers to spread festive anarchy in the ship's corridors but he drew the line at fire jugglers.)

A live concert had spontaneously cranked up. In just a few days, instruments stuffed at the bottom of lockers had been rediscovered and hidden talents brought to the fore.

The hard months which had preceded this day hadn't been forgotten, but it was like the crew now had permission to  _express_  optimism. Their experiences weren't being swept aside - if anything, they had surfaced in many of the songs people had discovered.

The crew had embraced an array of music (which was not exclusively Terran) and in doing so had found a way to deal with the buried feelings of guilt he and Troi had discussed days ago. The crew had been given a positive outlet to embrace those feelings.

But war songs had equal footing with other types of songs. Apparently there wasn't a love song that had never been written.

Riker marveled at the millennial ability to regurgitate itself and its themes over and over again.

But today, everywhere he went on the ship, the music was unified by jaunty tempos and uplifting melodies.

The millennial anthropologist Lark, as usual, was in the thick of it.

She had been called upon to join several musicians in Ten Forward. "One last song" kept turning into "just one more", until Sudamen had turned up, and like an unwelcome ion storm, attempted to put an end to the game.

"We'll be beaming planet-side in half and hour, Lark," he yelled from the door. When he saw Riker, he nodded.

He looked like an impatient parent, Riker thought. Not that anyone else was caring.

"Just one more ... we promise," Lieutenant Chafin from stellar-cartography pleaded. The six foot six Terran looked odd, begging his case.

Sudamen snorted, catching Riker's eye again as he made a face. There was an element of theatricality to the whole act.

Data's theory and evidence had ended their interest in Sudamen, and Riker had given up trying to engineer an informal interview with the man. However, the first officer still considered the Caldosan peculiar, and nothing he did today did anything to dispel that assessment.

"Oh, all right." Sudamen threw his hands in the air. "What about that awful Radiohand song you are always playing ...  _Fake Spastic Breeze?_ "

Again, the Coldasan glanced at Riker.

Riker did a double-take.

"You know perfectly well the band's name was Radiohead and the song is called  _Fake Plastic Trees_ , Sud ... and anyway." Lark looked less than enthusiastic. "As much as I love it, are you sure that's a good song to go out on?"

Sudamen stared at Riker as he spoke. "The way you sing it, Lark ... it's perfect."

She shrugged. After a quick conference with her band, she addressed to the room.

"My boss has just requested a song from a group called Radiohead. When their second studio album was released in 1997  _Rolling Stone Magazine_  called it the first album of the new millennium – so maybe it's appropriate to play one of their songs. This one comes from a little earlier in the 90s though. It's sort of sad and soaring at the same time – bittersweet, maybe. A bit like playing one last song for you guys.

" _A green plastic watering can_  
for a fake Chinese rubber plant  
and fake plastic earth ..."

Lark was right. The song was bittersweet. It didn't fit the mood – but its sadness was hypnotic.

A waiter leaned on the counter, chin resting on hand; a young ensign in front of Riker swayed; a seasoned science officer stared into her cocktail glass.

But the first officer was studying the great bear of a man still standing at the door.

" _She lives with a cracked polystyrene man, who just crumbles and burns_..."

Riker had to rub his eyes and shake his head before he could truly believe what he was seeing. Even then, he struggled to make sense of it.

The big man's hand was cupped over his mouth, but Sudamen seemed ... forlorn. Creases marked his forehead where his brows had pulled up.

As the melody swelled, his head drooped ... and the door behind him slid open.

" _She looks like the real thing_  
she tastes like the real thing -  
my fake plastic love."

As if time had slowed a thousandfold, Riker watched as Troi entered the room. Intensity rolled off her in waves -  _he_  could feel her; the thought confused him momentarily.

But before he had time to consider it, he was ensnared in her intent. She was a hunter. She rounded Sudamen – still lost in his haunting - her eyes locked on another point in the room. She sought the singer's face. Her head was shaking.

Suddenly she stopped. Behind her, Sudamen's head rose. Troi's eyes widened and her mouth twisted in horror. Riker blanched, fearful an image from one of his dreams had come to life. Troi did not move.

Lark was in her own world, oblivious to the scrutiny. Her final lines, devastating:

 _"It wears me out._  
It wears me out.  
And if I could be who you wanted;  
if I could be who you wanted,  
all the time, all the time ..."

And, just like that, the song ended.

Rapturous applause broke out. The crew whooped and stomped its approval.

Riker watched Troi snap to. He saw the confusion break on her face. The song had scarcely died before Lark threw a significant look at her impromptu band. She grabbed the mic again.

"I refuse to end on that note." She pounded the base of the mic into her hand. "Management can go screw itself."

 _So this is what they mean when they say a crowd goes wild_ , Riker thought, bemused.

The band, privy to her plans, had maniacal grins plastered over their faces. Lieutenant Chafin branded his own special look of devilry as his fingers started swiping deep, fat notes from his bass guitar.

" _I don't want to be crippled and cracked._  
Shoulders, legs, knees and back.  
Ground to dust and ash.  
Crawling on all fours.  
When you've got to feel it in your bones ..."

The soft, introspective singer was gone – replaced with a frenetic, rasping, swooping performer set to raise the stage with her voice. The band was loving every second of it.

Troi looked lost and sick  _and_  blissful; he didn't know how he knew, but he realized she needed rescuing.

Around her people were dancing – and not the stately, elegant dances she was comfortable with. The euphoric frenzy burning up the room might have been enough to overwhelm her ...

But as lost as she seemed, she had also found something. Something unexpected. She twisted back, her eyes automatically finding Riker's.

He watched her expel a breath, her shoulders rising and falling. There was a look on her face he couldn't identify – some deep emotion bubbling under the surface.

Behind her, Sudamen's face stared straight ahead again, but he turned and this time, Riker knew he hadn't been mistaken. Six times the man caught his eye – deliberately.

The song ended abruptly, reducing the audience to a madhouse.

With a curt nod to the  _Enterprise's_  first officer, the Caldosan steeled his face. He nodded at Lark and pointed to the door with a jerk of his hand. She got the message. She pushed through the crowd to the waiting man. And, just like that, she disappeared out the door.

She had understood him perfectly.

 _If only I could too,_  Riker thought.

He was about to step to Troi, determined to understand the drama that had just played out before him, when he saw her hand flick to her comm badge. He saw her lips move but missed what she said.

She threw him one last look of ... was it exasperation? and headed to the door.

* * *

Riker lay in his bed, resting fitfully for three hours before he decided to stop playing the charade.

He got up hours before his shift. He went to the gym; he showered. He read, he reviewed as much information as they had on the dead impostor, on the  _Fleur-de-lys_ , and on the  _Bounty_ , trying to render some sense which tied in to what Data had told them earlier that day.

After three nights of blissful, precious sleep, his unwelcome night time visitor had returned.

He sat motionless for a half hour, staring at the tongue barb he had found in Sem's pocket: the one gift in his rotten dream. For he had woke up knowing, the barb and its earring mate had a truth to communicate. The dream was the last thing he wanted to remember, but now it was reaching out to him, daring him to look within himself for answers.

Steeling himself, he leaned back and closed his eyes – trying to recall exactly what he had seen.

No matter how it started, no matter where he was – be it in the humidity of the Jalaran Jungle or the cold of an Alaskan glacial valley – she would always come. She would always drape her arms around his neck, run her fingertips across his chest, let her hands travel over his body, and set him quivering while he tried to control his desire to possess her.

In the early hours of this morning, he had failed.

_As he had pressed her hard against a marble column and, as her legs encircled his hips, drawing him into herself, and they moved up and down, she had gasped exultantly – her cry echoing in the cavernous room._

_It wasn't any place he had ever been to or seen, but his dream sense told him it was an old place. Its hush and awe not broken by, but amplifying – in its high-vaulted ceiling – the ecstasy in this woman's gasps._

_Spent, they slid down the column, clinging to each other. As he stared up, knowing a peace he had no right to, she lay light kisses over him, and he realized the room was not empty – among the many columns, artifacts were arranged on stands and under glass covers; a white headband, a scrap of paper, a piece of vine, shards of vase – all on display._

_He had murmured to her, calling and asking her to look; her head had lifted, wonder in her eyes as she took in the gallery. Then she had turned to face him._

_She was just as confused as he was. And when his eyes met hers, finally, pandemonium was unleashed._

_Under his hands, her skin began to boil and hiss; flesh roiling and steaming. He scrambled back suddenly, sickened. She opened her mouth and let forth a howl, drawing away from him in terror. Orange flames erupted from her palms – her hands held out in supplication. Transfixed he watched as the flames traveled and licked her arms, unrelenting in their hunger. He could do nothing – the weight of his own disbelief rendering him motionless. Before him she ignited, cracked and blackened as the fire consumed her wholly. But her eyes – like holes – never left his; the horror on her face a mirror of his own._

_And he could feel nothing of it._

_He watched helplessly as she disintegrated, slowing blackening the white marble floor with ash. An unexpected noise startled him. He watched in disbelief as huge doors opened and Data, leading a class of school children, skipped through the room – ignoring him – and stopping at each artifact. The children's faces forming big Os as Data spoke – his lips moving in random patterns – not mimicking the singsong chant that was the only thing Riker could hear, repeated over and over and over again._

_"William was a bad man,_  
William was a thief,  
William came to my house and stole a piece of me,  
William was a bad man,  
William was a thief,  
William came to my house and stole a piece of me,  
William was a ..."

_He put his hands to his ears but could not rid his head of their voices._

_And when he closed his eyes, burning Troi branded herself on his eyelids. His gaze fixed on black ash. Until a shaft of light from an overhead window fell all-too-obviously on something tiny and silver in the dust._

_Dream Riker felt himself moving forward on hands and knees, preparing to pluck the antique tongue barb from the floor. An unexpected shadow fell over him._

_A large shape bent and claimed the prize for himself._

_"Tsk, tsk," said the Caldosan, blowing the ashes from his hand and watching them flurry and float. In the light, they glittered like a showman's trick to draw the eye._

_"Tsk, tsk, Mr Riker," he said, holding the barb up to his face, rolling it between his thumb and finger._

_He took a sweeping look at the room before his face snapped in front of Riker's. Dream Riker imagined stale, hot breath on his cheek. For a parsec they looked at each other._

_Dream Riker jolted, recognizing something in the man's sad eyes; they had reached an understanding. Then, with melancholy in his voice, the big man started to whisper._

_Riker strained to hear._

_The voice strengthened. "A mausoleum ... a mausoleum ... a mausoleum ..."_

_Around the hall, Sudamen's voice echoed louder and louder, until Riker bolted upright, Sudamen's final message ringing his ears: "A mausoleum ... this museum is a mausoleum ... this museum is a mausoleum."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake Plastic Trees, by Radiohead  
> Bones, by Radiohead
> 
> There was no place in this chapter for a nice dream. Poor Riker.


End file.
